


Harry Potter and the Case of the Mysteriously Gazing Cow

by salazarinadress



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Harry Potter, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Auror Harry Potter, Blind Character, Blind Severus Snape, Case Fic, Complete, Crimes & Criminals, Cuddling & Snuggling, Disability, Drama & Romance, Falling In Love, Head Auror Harry Potter, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Long, M/M, Mystery, Near Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Harry Potter, Past Abuse, Plotty, Police Brutality, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Build, Substance Abuse, Suspicions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 108,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25708702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarinadress/pseuds/salazarinadress
Summary: Lead Auror Harry Potter can’t help but feel that his life has become a bit, well… shit. After an injury took him out of the field a few years ago, he’s not so sure he ever wanted to be an auror in the first place. He doesn’t want to be anything at all. He just goes through the motions - work, drink, spiral; avoid the papers, his friends and anything that might force him to face the truth about himself.But when an investigation into a series of impossible thefts reveals deeper threads in politics and corruption, he must work not only against his own vices, but the Ministry itself to solve the case. No matter where he turns, he can’t seem to make any progress.The only thing going right for him is a growing friendship with the blind brewer Severus Snape, and before he can let that turn into something more, he has to accept the possibility that Snape might not be telling him the truth about everything...
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 146
Kudos: 262





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's a case fic! Woo! Lots of dark themes and pants, but it has its comfort moments too dw. :3  
> I've finished writing this fic, so no chance of abandonment. Posting one chapter at a time so I can do last checks for typos and plot holes a bit at a time. Will post a new chapter every day for the next couple weeks.  
> blind!snape; alcoholic!harry

It was a god-awful morning.

Diagon Alley was muggy and dark in the predawn, the cobbled street lit only by a diffuse glow spilling from the shops preparing to open - through gaps in closed iron shutters, panes of ancient, warped glass and between the quaint and outdated painted wooden frames. Despite these sources, it was still a time of shadows, the sun not yet having penetrated the humid morning mist. There was something in the scene, Harry thought, that felt tainted. Like something awful had happened here, leaving a lingering evil in its wake.

To be fair, Gringotts had been robbed - which meant Harry was forced from bed at four o’ clock in the morning, a mere two hours after he’d finally managed to drink himself to sleep. That was _something bloody awful_ in his book. A refreshing spell meant he didn’t smell of beer at least, but he felt both heavy and light on his feet at the same time, and not at all in the mood for field work.

Auror Zantia stepped quickly into beat with him as he hobbled and grimaced his way up the unevenly paved street, and passed him a spelled-hot coffee and a page of notes. He sipped the former as he pretended to read the latter. Words swam on the page. Probably still a little bit drunk, then. “Perp was seen, sort of,” she said. Sort of? She ignored his raised brow, the same way she ignored all of his sarcastic habits. “Shadow sweeping across the wall in the corner of his eye, could have been anything if you ask me. He didn’t think nothing of it either, until alarms went off a minute later. Dowell is on interview.” The last was a warning.

Harry scowled. How exactly had Alisdair Dowell managed to get hold of the key witness, when there were numerous more experienced aurors available? No, scrap that, how had he managed to pass even the most basic of requirements for becoming an auror in the first place? He was an incompetent fool on the level of Inspector Clouseau, though hopefully he didn’t have the same ability to drive his boss to insanity. He’d only been under Harry’s command for a few months and he suspected the worst in that regard. It was only a matter of time until he tried to kill the man for his incredible stupidity.

“First on the scene,” Zantia answered, not waiting for him to ask the question aloud. Of course he bloody was. The one thing Alisdair had going for him was how desperately keen he was to be useful. He was the first on every bloody scene, like he had a sixth sense for where the next crime might be committed. It helped that he was an insomniac, and barely slept - although Harry wasn’t an easy sleeper either, and he was never the first to anything if he could help it. He knew logically that Dowell’s ardency was a gift to the team, but he couldn’t force himself to feel anything but disgust over the young auror’s naive optimism.

“Only a fool judges actions taken in the past based on the knowledge of today,” a goblin was saying reproachfully as Harry climbed the last steps to the bank entrance, gritting his teeth at the pain in his leg. Opaque magical barriers were being erected around the site, blocking off the front of the bank from view. To one side, a group of disgruntled goblins argued with two aurors that they couldn’t possibly do anything so rash as _close the bank_. Not for a single minute. There were witches and wizards out there waiting to put money in their vaults!

It was going to be a long one. Or more probably, a very short one with no results. Just one more fuck-up to put on the Potter list, not that the press needed an excuse to talk about how much of a failure he was in every fucking aspect of his life.

“Would you take over?” He asked Zantia in a mutter, knowing her superior hearing would pick up his words. Everyone knew his history with Gringotts, so she was a better choice for interviewing. That, and he was in desperate need of a sobering potion. They didn’t make it in time to prevent Dowell from opening his big idiotic mouth.

_“Well maybe if you had, we might have the thief in our hands at this very moment.”_

He clapped a hand on Dowell’s shoulder with a forced smile, trying not to think about how little sense the young auror’s comment made. “Thank you, Auror Dowell. I can see you’re doing splendid work here, but would you mind giving Mosser a hand inside?” He didn’t look pleased at Harry’s interruption - he was an imbecile, but not quite enough of one to miss when he was being looked down on - so Harry added: “And I’d like your personal report on my desk by lunchtime. As first on the scene, your insights will be invaluable.”

That bolstered the man’s spirits, though Harry wondered if it was a good thing to be feeding Dowell’s ego. He wished he could keep the man off field work altogether, but he’d need to prove reasonable grounds - a measure Harry himself had put in place, back in the golden days - and he couldn’t gather evidence for said grounds unless he let the junior auror first _attempt_ to do his job, fucking up their chances of solving a single damn thing in the mean time.

He left the goblin in Zantia’s capable hands, but knew there was little hope of salvaging the situation, and spent the next half hour trying to stop the creatures from contaminating his crime scene. It got so bad that goblins began “accidentally” touching, moving and knocking over objects in any room or hall forensics tried to set up in. They had to physically _force_ their way into the vault where the theft had occurred, for which Harry received many threats, both physical and legal. He laughed those off hollowly. _As if there’s anything left of me to be taken._

He stood guard outside while forensics did their work, which meant he couldn’t get an eye in of his own. He’d have to trust their photographs and reports later. Regardless, it was less than an hour before some snubby little shit sent a jinx at his leg, sending him gasping and gripping a ledge on the nearest wall.

 _Fucking sneaky bastards_. He should have known by the way they’d been congregating and whispering. It took every particle of his self-control - a scarce resource of late - not to take out his wand. He gripped his leg with a grimace, wishing he could straighten up and pretend the pain wasn’t there as goblins streamed past him to force out his team. Damn bloody papers, reporting every tiny fucking thing about his life. There wasn’t a wizard or witch in Britain who didn’t know about his injury, or the dodgy experimental healing that had left him with a never-closing wound - and admittedly, the use of a limb he would have lost otherwise.

He was the last to leave after they were forced out, standing under the torrent of complaints from the head clerk about the three quarters of an hour of lost earnings. Harry suspected he had been the jinx-ee, and imagined sending him sprawling with a spell, an indignant and shocked expression on his horrible pinched little face. The thought got him through.

When he stepped outside, his day got no better. It was raining, which he could have coped with if it had deterred the bloody press; a gang of them half-blocked the steps, under a roof of black umbrellas protecting jackets and dictaquills from the miserable downpour. They didn’t extend him the courtesy.

Harry’s shirt was soaked through before he had taken two steps out the door, too exhausted and uncaring to spell himself a bit of cover. He was going to look like a drowned rat on the front page this afternoon. The journalists streamed forwards, questions tumbling over one another in a torrent so thick he couldn’t have heard one to answer even if he had more to say than “The investigation is ongoing, we will be making an official statement once we have more than preliminary findings to present.”

Ron was waiting at the bottom of the stairs and could have come up to save him, but he stared up and grinned instead, raindrops curving down his cheeks. He wasn’t part of Harry’s squad so had no obligation whatsoever to help out. The bastard, he’d better be buying at The Hare tonight.

Then Harry saw him.

The man - just a man, he reminded himself - appeared first as a silhouette through the grey cover of rain. A highly recognisable silhouette, and its owner’s identity was confirmed as it solidified into three dimensional human features. Mostly nose. He stopped dead at the bottom step to the bank. A spell stopped the rain in a precise square above his head, evaporating the water away into white steam. Then, with a twist of a hand and a murmured incantation, he began slowly to climb one step at a time. At each step he hesitated just a moment, but didn’t fumble or trip. Harry watched, transfixed despite the clamouring journalists. The man had not been seen in public in months.

He realised suddenly that the gaggle of reporters facing him were fully blocking the stairs, having spread out so everyone could be in the ‘front row’. Harry turned a scowl on them and wrapped up his non-statement, before trying to shoo them all to one side. The man stood patiently a step below, waiting for the obstacle to move.

When they too saw who it was, they started swarming the other way with a whole new set of questions. Harry fought to push them back, and even Ron joined in with a put-upon roll of the eyes. They cleared a path, Harry not-quite pushing the last (Witch Weekly) out of the way with a cry of “For Merlin’s sake, don’t you know a hero when you see one?”

Of course, that’s not what they saw at all.

With the way clear, the man began his slow climb again. It was only ten steps in total from bottom to top, but the few that took him past Harry felt like a thousand.

He neither turned nor reacted, simply stared straight ahead with those night-black eyes. He didn’t see Harry, didn’t see the reporters or even the bank itself. He didn’t see anything at all - because Severus Snape was blind.


	2. Chapter 1

Harry had come to lead the Theft and Burglary department because of an unusually good intuition and a gift for understanding motives. He was a people person, in short, despite the fact that he was fairly certain he hated people. He supposed that everyone who knew anything about the motives of humans came to hate them eventually.

With theft, there was a range of possible motives. The most straight forward cases were those caused by money problems, revenge or that stupid “taking back what’s rightfully mine” mentality. So obvious, he wonders how people think they'll get away with it. More likely they were never thinking at all. Sometimes there was excitement, he supposed - especially when it came to broom thefts. Bloody kids and their joy riding, he swore there’d been nothing like that back when he was a teenager. Not that he’d had time, what with the murdering maniac after him year on year. He resented the kids these days, growing up without fear - even while he was glad and proud that it was the case. I made that possible for you, you ungrateful sods. They repaid him by turning his face into a so-called ‘meme’ depicting efforts that will inevitably go wrong due to your own self-sabotaging actions.

It staggered him sometimes how close to the mark, how observant kids could be. And at the same time, so bloody blind and ungrateful...

It wasn’t a broom that had been stolen, anyway. A painting, somewhat valuable but nothing spectacular. It apparently depicted a field with a brown cow looking to the left, evoking the mystery of some artsy bullshit. The only reason Harry was on the case at all was the fact that it’d been stolen from a locked vault, the only key to which was inside another vault twenty six levels below - which still lay untouched in a particularly nasty hexbox. Gringotts vault, no key; it was the burglary equivalent of a locked room murder. If that alone wasn’t impossible enough, the frame was alarmed against leaving the vault. Hardly an object one could sneak out in their pocket, even if that was possible when it came to this particular bank.

Size notwithstanding, the last theft at Gringotts had been perpetrated by Harry and his friends almost two decades earlier. They’d had inside help, and they’d been found out in the act. How on earth had someone got past all those doors and goblins, used the tracks to get to a vault seventeen floors underground, open it without a key and make off with an object that was alarmed not to leave the room? All with only a shadow glimpsed in the corner of an eye. The goblins adamantly refused to believe that it could be an insider this time, but it hardly seemed likely.

Adding to the confusion, it had supposedly been stacked up with a bunch of other paintings, the vast majority of which were both smaller and infinitely more valuable. It made no sense. What was so bloody special about a painting of a cow?

He strode into the desk hall, or came as close to striding as he could with his damn leg.

Calling it a hall was generous, but he didn’t make the names. Some of the other departments had rooms big emough for the title - murder and fraud being the largest. There were seven desks, though only five were permanently filled, each piled with a differently shaped mound of messy paperwork. There were no windows this far underground, and no fake windows either, though Tina complained that it would brighten the place up to have some natural light. She thought it absolutely the best use of a third of their quarterly budget to install. The only features of the unadorned grimy plaster walls were periodic candle sconces, and two doors - one into the corridor, the other to Harry’s pokey office.

His small team hurried to attention as he swept in. It was satisfying, watching them scramble to their feet in a panic. He halted in front of Mosser’s desk - his paperwork pile was the largest and most precariously stacked - and leaned on the wood to take pressure off his leg. It would be days before it felt right again after that little hex.

“Alrighty, fresh investigation. Let’s go.” He quickly fired off instructions, aware but uncaring of how rough his voice sounded. They were used to his hangovers by now. “DeRobles, welcome back, sorry we can’t catch up on Prague. Mosser will get you up to speed with the case. I need the two of you checking for previous. I know it’s early, but no one gets this damn good overnight. They’ve had practice, I don’t know when and I don’t know what but you’re going to find out. Any other impossible thefts from the last year, any paintings as well. Hell, check if there’s been a spate of fucking cow thefts reported to the Dyfed Powys Police Force if you feel it’s necessary. You don’t find anything, keep going back until you do. See if we’ve had any recent releases from Azkaban as well.”

He clicked his fingers a few times, something he did while waiting for his brain to catch up with his mouth. He couldn’t have other people taking the opportunity to speak up when he had other things to be getting on with, like wallowing in misery or working up a good bit of anger and misery. Petty grievances against the universe were all that got him through the day - surviving out of spite, just to show them he could. “Tina, I need you looking into the painting itself. Who drew it - painted, whatever - how long it’s been in the vault, that sort of thing. What’s so special about it? Who would find it so dreadfully precious as to turn down others worth thrice the amount? I want answers: history of ownership, every place that mysteriously gazing cow has mysteriously bloody gazed.” He took a breath. “Zantia, you’re my brain today because it’s fucking gone. Method. How the hell did they manage it? Hassle evidence, see what comes up. I’m gunna need your weird out-the-box thinking on this one because the answer will be something we’ve never seen before. I can feel it. Go.”

He slammed a hand on the desk when they continued to stand around, making them all jump, and barked a fuck off just to make sure.

Dowell caught up with him at his office door. “What about me, sir?”

Ah yes, what about the idiot? “You’re with me,” he said. He’d keep the man close, that way he’d definitely see when he slipped up and could get him off the streets, maybe even off the team.

Dowell beamed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best to assist you.”

Assisting him mostly meant fetching tea and bearing witness to his grumbling and rants. They sat in his office, working through paperwork and reports. He didn’t really get to do much investigating, himself. He spent more hours on staff reviews, meetings, one-to-ones and budgeting than he did on actual Auror work. It had seemed like a good move, four years ago - well, the only move really - to go up into management.

He’d taken a slicing jinx during a chase, almost cut his leg clean off. He probably would have lost it if not for the actions of his then partner Bobbi Jesterfell, who earned a shiny medal for her quick thinking. Six months later while Harry was still in St Mungo’s learning to walk, she got hit with a curse of her own.

Dead.

Harry could readily admit that he hadn’t been the same since. Not that the misery and distraction hadn’t started long before, but this job had been his life, the only thing getting him through - and her death had brought up questions he’d been previously avoiding. Was he willing to die for his job? Was he willing to put the aurors under his management - his care - in that danger? He’d sacrificed so much, dedicated every moment of the last thirteen years to being an auror, and for the last four of those he’d been about as alive as Bobbi.

He sighed, opening a brown folder just to look busy, but the words wouldn’t sit still for him.

He’d meant to leave the force, hadn’t he? Then this position had come up, and it was mostly desk work. It wasn’t like he had any other ideas. Being an auror was the only plan he’d ever had - other than marrying Ginny, and everyone knew how that had gone.

A knock on the open door roused him from pretending to read holiday requests. “Yes?” he asked, raising his head.

It was Zantia. Her tightly curled hair was tied back in a bun, but a few strands found their way loose. Her eyes were dark with makeup, her lips deep red and her skin pale as the foam on a butterbeer. She wouldn’t know the reference to Snow White, so he kept the joke to himself. “Sir, forensics is in.” She held out a plain brown file, stamped with the Ministry crest in patchy black ink.

His brows shot up. “Already?” It usually took a day or two for the report to appear on his desk.

Zantia shrugged. “They’d barely set up when they were kicked out, and the goblins wouldn’t let them take any evidence out of the vault so there’s really not much in there,” she explained, taking the file back out of his hand to open it and flip a few pages. “The only thing of note seems to be this.” She handed him a page, but gave him no time to read it before pointing to a photograph of some warped-looking frames. It was like being in a bloody juggling duo. “They noted splinch-like damage on some of the adjacent paintings, basically anything that was in contact with the stolen item.”

“So the perp apparated out with it, while it was in contact with the other paintings,” Dowell added. “That’d explain how he got out without notice.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, moved to put his feet up on the desk, then remembered he couldn’t. Old habit. “Have you ever tried apparating in or out of Gringotts?” he asked. Dowell shook his head. “The wards are so strong they don’t just stop you, they bounce you right off. You’d go flying across the room with enough force to break your neck.”

Zantia nodded. “I was thinking about that, and I have a theory. Well, maybe a theory, theoretically. Some kind of modified containment charm. Transporting the painting inside itself might not set off any wards, since nothing is leaving the vault. Sort of... Very theoretically.” She walked around the table to Harry’s side, leaning over him to point out the details of the photograph at the bottom of the page. It showed some of the splinch damage on a gold gilded frame, twisting the lines out of shape. “They might even have left the signs here to make us think it was apparition, lead us on the wrong track.”

She had a good head on her shoulders when it came to thinking outside the box, but Zantia was sometimes prone to thinking so far outside of it that she forgot the box even had a purpose. “I doubt that could be done without significant damage, if it’s even possible at all.” Harry replied, running a hand through his hair. Folding the thing inside itself? Maybe. Hadn’t Hermione’s bag worked something like that back at school? Then again, it wasn’t the sort of charm you could just cast with a wave of your wand as you’d never be able to stabilise it. He’d never heard of it done, anyway. There was a bigger flaw in the theory though. “Paintings are made to be looked at. Even a small flaw, fold or tear would render it worthless to someone who cares enough to steal it from one of the planet’s most secure locations. It wouldn’t make sense.” That’s all he could think. It simply didn’t make sense, none of it. His head was pounding, suddenly.

“Unless…” Zantia pouted, eyes darting over the page as her brain worked. “What if the painting was more than it seemed? It wasn’t the most valuable thing in the room, right? Maybe they weren’t after it for the aesthetic nor monetary value, but for something we’re not yet aware of?”

Harry nodded slowly. That could be it… A message or threat to the owner. Destroying evidence of another crime. There were countless possible motives for stealing something you wanted to destroy. There had to be something more to the thing than paint on canvas. “Team up with Tina, she’s looking into the history. Find out if it might have been charmed; you look into the cow’s eyes and you become a cow or something. I don’t know.” He waved a hand in irritation. Why was he fixating on the damn cow? Zantia grimaced - the women weren’t exactly close friends, owing to some lycanthrophobic comments Tina had made over a year ago. “I’m not asking you to get along, just do your bloody job,” he told her as she scowled, and her expression vanished quickly behind a professional facade. He turned to Dowell, the last available auror on his team.

“We might be looking at this the wrong way. I need you to look into the other items in the vault. What else was damaged in the process? It’s possible the target wasn’t the stolen item at all, but the damaged ones. Why would someone want to destroy them?” He frowned down at the photo in his hand, counting up the damaged portraits. “They stole a painting worth three hundred galleons, but damaged a total of what, twelve hundred's worth? Let’s get a precise number on that, and a background on the vault owner if we can get a bloody name. Standard fare: enemies and spurned lovers, et cetera...” He trailed off, thinking, and then noticed after a moment that the pair were still standing there.

“What’re you waiting for, an invitation?” They jumped to it, and he shouted after them. “Close the door on your way out, if you can work out how to bloody use it.” It slammed shut halfway through the sentence.

He leaned back in his chair with an annoyed sigh, scrubbing hands over his face. He was exhausted and in pain. Where had he gone wrong? He was supposed to be like Shacklebolt, but instead he got more Mad-eye every day.

He wished that the weariness in him was just the result of a busy day after very little sleep. He wished that it was just today, and that it hadn’t also been yesterday, and wouldn’t be tomorrow and every day after.

He wished that a lot, but the pain was always there.

Abruptly, he yanked open a desk drawer and grabbed the bottle of fire whiskey from inside. He was halfway to opening it before he realised what he was doing. He glanced at the clock. One in the afternoon. “Really, Potter?” he snapped, throwing the bottle back in place and slamming the drawer shut. He accio’d a pain reliever from the corner cupboard instead, downed it and got on with his work as the world regained its colour for an hour.

He drowned in holiday requests, meetings and memos until six o’clock, then grabbed his coat as soon as the seconds hand ticked past 12.

He wasn’t due to meet Ron until 8, but he could get there early to grab a bite. Not that he was really hungry. He hesitated at the door to his office. The other aurors would be working late on the assignments he’d given them, so he should stay to help out for an hour or so. It would be the sensible thing to do, all that good leadership nonsense. It was what the Harry he aspired to be would do.

He opened the door to find Tina and Zantia in a bickering match, and Dowell insisting to Mosser that there was something in whatever stupid theory he had concocted this time. It was loud, busy, close. Managing their childish bickering was too much for him. They were idiots, and his headache grew.

Fuck the Harry he aspired to be, that guy was probably a dickhead anyway.

He bade them a good night as politely as he could manage and made his way to the portkeys. He didn’t drink in London - too many bloody journalists everywhere, ready to report on the constant downward spiral of his life. He'd go somewhere else until it was time to meet Ron.

“Location?” asked the bored clerk. It was the hometime rush, but that meant nothing in this dingy corner of the building - which was why Harry used it.

He shrugged. “A muggle town, anywhere will do. Ah, but somewhere under shelter, I’ve been soaked once already today.” The man nodded slowly and stepped aside, apparently caring as much for his work as Harry did.

The portkey was a horseshoe. Harry took a breath before touching it - travelling this way always messed with - “Augh!”

He was sucked in and spat out onto tarmac, barely keeping his feet under him. The travelling only took a moment, but in that time it felt like his wound was reopening, his leg spiraling out behind him like orange peel in a bloody blender. He took several gulping breaths on the other side, and patted the place his leg had been cut just for reassurance. He’d never get used to that - a side effect of the advanced healing that had allowed him to keep the limb. It was magically sewn together, and for some reason became unstable during transportation spells. The floo was slower and thus didn’t affect it quite so badly, but it was also dirtier and more restrictive - apparition on the other hand was nothing more than a daydream, unless he felt like losing the limb after all.

He huffed, blinking down at the tarmac and puddles until the pain in his leg subsided enough to let him stand up straight.

There was no shelter overhead - bloody fucking clerks, paid to do one little thing... - so he quickly thumped out of the dripping alley onto a quiet town square. An elderly woman in a navy macintosh walked past, dragging a leashed labrador behind as it stopped to sniff a postbox and then a parked up Land Rover. He waited for her to pass, awkward greeting smiles exchanged, then crossed the road to the pub opposite.

The Globe. What an unoriginal name. Muggles seemed to use the same names over and over, which he was sure must cause confusion. He’d been to a town once that had two the same. One Coach House on the main street, and another on the outskirts. Totally absurd. You never got that in wizarding Britain - how could you floo to a pub if there were two of the same name?

It was a stone building, probably a few hundred years old, and he could see various globe-themed ornaments through the drizzle-spattered window as he approached, as well as some ships in bottles and buoys and the like. Coastal town then, though he couldn’t hear the sea. He pushed the door open.

The furnishings were an eclectic collection, presumably whatever was going cheap on the day it was needed. A middle-aged couple sat chatting on a brown leather sofa by the door, and a builder with cement dust on his sleeves nursed a pint as he read a newspaper by an enclosed fireplace. The bar was of purplish grey slate, and the gleaming pumps advertised a standard selection of muggle beers and ciders, as well as one with a laminated label zip-tied on. “Local. 4.5%ish.”

As he approached, a young man sitting behind the bar looked up from his cellular phone. “Dai, customer!” He shouted over his shoulder, then gave Harry a friendly smile which he returned. He couldn’t understand why he was constantly having to smile at strangers, but he didn’t want to come across as a dickhead. Heaven forbid people knew what he was really like...

Dai was a big man with a square-cut beard that contrasted a bald head, shining yellow under the dull lamps overhead. He wore a welcoming smile as he stepped behind the bar from a door to the side. “What can I do you for, then?” He asked, picking up a pint glass from under the bar and holding it expectantly. Harry was half tempted to order wine just for the presumption, but the man was right. Harry was a run of the mill pint-of-what’s-cheap bloke.

Again, he was battered by the sudden and strong sense that his life had become a bit shit. That he had become shit. “Uh, can I have a try of the local before I decide?”

The bearded man broke into a grin. “Ahh the adventurous type, are you? Don’t worry, this won’t disappoint.” He poured a small measure into the bottom of the glass. It was a deep reddish colour. “You’re lucky to have the opportunity, stuff runs out faster than he can make it.”

“That good, huh?” Harry replied, for the sake of politeness. Little places like this often had special pricing for Richards from out of town, and he wasn’t in the mood for being ripped off. What was the point of leaving London, if not a cheap pint?

“Oh yes,” Dai answered, with more depth of enthusiasm than anyone should have for anything. He placed the glass almost reverently on the rubber Guinness mat in front of Harry, and looked at him expectantly. “Made with water from an ancient spring up on the head, it has magical properties. Some say it’s healing, though that hasn’t been proven. What we do know is that one sip of that sweet nectar will make you feel like you’re right back in your mother’s arms.”

Harry tried not to frown at the mumbo. Dai continued to watch him, evidently waiting for him to take a sip. He did so self consciously, and his eyes widened. A… how could he describe it? A ripple of calm fell through him, causing his bunched shoulders to drop and his leg to relax in a way it hadn’t in years. It was obviously charmed. Some sort of calming draught, but like nothing he’d felt before. It washed through him like a wave on a flat beach, rolling over his skin and leaving a pleasant tingle as it receded and sank into him. He almost wanted to smile.

Well, he couldn’t be having with that. He’d been carefully cultivating his misery over the years, and it wouldn’t do to have his efforts undone.

He finished the sample, then asked for a pint of bitter instead, much to the man’s disappointment. “It’s pretty amazing stuff,” he reassured Dai. “I’m just not in the mood to have my spirits lifted today.”

The man nodded slowly in understanding, and leaned over the bar to speak in confidence. Harry leaned forwards too, which turned out to be unnecessary as the man’s gravelly voice wasn’t capable of a whisper. “I don’t usually say, as he’s a bit of a lone ranger don’t like no one knowing, but he’s actually in today - the brewer, I mean. Miserable bastard. Seems like you two might get along, no offence meant. Sat in a booth down that end, wouldn’t hurt to go say hello. Name o’ Reg.”

It seemed a bit sketchy, but this brewer was obviously a wizard selling magical goods to muggles. Very clearly illegal, and as an auror he should probably at least pretend to want to investigate. He’d also feel more comfortable drinking here if he knew he’d scared off the only person who might recognise him and report his drinking during a high-profile investigation to the press.

He felt Dai’s gaze on him as he walked through to the back room of the pub, freshly poured pint of bitter in hand. The booth in question was actually three tall-backed wooden church pews arranged in an open ended square around a scratched oval table. A man sat with his back to Harry, whose steps slowed as he approached.

“The fucking chances…” he muttered, and considered turning around before curiosity got the better of him. Louder, he said: “Reg.”

Severus Snape turned his head, black hair falling from his left shoulder with the movement. It had grown much longer since Hogwarts. “Regulus, if you please. Have we met?” His eyes were inky black pools all the way across, giving him an almost alien appearance. There were no whites at all, just shiny darkness like looking at the night sky. His surly, annoyed expression was familiar though, almost comfortably so. The man hadn’t changed. He was still, as Dai had put it, a miserable bastard.

Harry had expected that the wizard might somehow recognise him, know that he had said the fake name in sarcasm. Now he had to backtrack awkwardly, which sprung up sudden annoyance in his chest. “Uh, it’s Harry.” He sat opposite Snape, sighing as the weight was lifted from his sore leg. That bloody goblin would pay, he’d make sure of it. He took a sip of beer, quickly followed by a long gulp, and was glad he hadn’t gone with the local. Who knew what a man like Snape would put in his concoctions. He wondered if there’d be any lingering effects from the few mouthfuls he’d drank.

“Good evening, Harry,” the man replied, inclining his head in reluctant greeting. His arm tensed under the table, and Harry wondered if he was gripping his wand. He evidently didn’t recognise the voice, and to be fair on the git he could hardly expect it to be that Harry.

“Er, it’s Harry Potter actually. Sorry.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to apologise, but it was too strong an urge to deny. There was something about Snape, a certain authority despite the fact that he now had none. The man stared at him with a slight frown, and Harry quickly tried to think of a disarming topic to show that he meant no ill. “Good beer, rich flavour.”

Snape’s face closed, his expression suddenly stoic. “I am quite sure I don’t know what you mean, Auror Potter,” he said mildly.

Harry held in a sigh. “I wasn’t trying to… Merlin, Snape. I don’t care that much about-” He stopped himself, realising that he’d been about to say my job. He really was on the brink of a midlife crisis, wasn’t he? “I was just saying, it’s good beer. I’m not after you for feeding charmed pints to muggles. I didn’t even know you’d be here. I can leave you alone if you’d prefer, it’s not like I came for the company, myself.” He’d just wanted a bit of peace. Why was the simple act of talking to people so bloody difficult?

Snape didn’t reply for a few long seconds, and Harry started getting up. Then the man held out a hand. “In that case, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more, Harry Potter.” They shook hands uncomfortably over the small table. It was weird, awkward. The man’s hand felt real and strong in his. Magnetic.

Harry tried to pull his hand back as soon as was polite, uncomfortable as he was with people touching him, but Snape held on. “Just a moment,” the brewer murmured, fingers gripping hard. He turned Harry’s hand palm-up and traced the shape of it with his fingers. Then he rose, nudging the table with his legs, and ran a hand over Harry’s arm to his shoulder. “I should at least pretend to confirm your identity, hm?”

He supposed Snape had to have some way of knowing what he looked like. Harry dropped back onto the bench and then sat still as Snape’s hands climbed up his arm to his shoulders and then his neck. It was almost like a horror film, the monster creeping slowly closer with the inevitable force of narrative tension. He stared at those dark eyes, noticing specks of light in the darkness. Like glitter. For a moment, he thought Snape would strangle him, and he was almost disappointed when the fingers carried their exploration up to Harry’s face. It was an uncomfortable experience, like all physical contact, and he tried to block out the feeling. The hands swept up his neck to his cheeks, scratching over his two-day stubble. Well, maybe three-day. Not wanting to close his eyes, he shook the man off when his fingers got too close to the sockets.

Snape sat back down and felt along the table for his glass. It looked like whiskey, and he downed the last gulp before hitting the end of the pew twice with a thick wooden stick. Harry leapt out of his skin at the sudden sound.

“Alright!” he heard Dai shout from the bar.

Just like that, the terrible intimate moment was over and he was suddenly aware of the other sounds in the pub again. Clattering chairs, clinking glasses, voices rising and falling, and bursts of laughter. The hum of the radiators, and a growing breeze outside that whistled distantly in the main room’s chimney.

“Come here often, then?” Harry asked in sarcasm. Trust Snape to have the entire establishment at his beck and call, without even having to get off his arse. The man surprised Harry again by pulling a bright green muggle bank card out of his pocket, which led him to notice that Snape was also wearing muggle clothing. It hadn’t hit him at first because the fare was as black as anything he’d worn two decades ago, but instead of billion-button robes he was wearing a woollen turtleneck and dark jeans. “How do you know what colour your clothes are?” Harry asked, when it was clear his first question was going to be left unanswered.

“I’m not the first blind wizard to exist in all of time, Potter.” Snape answered, then hit the pew again impatiently and placed the plastic card carefully at the end of the table. “There are charms for that sort of thing.”

“I said alright, ya bastard!” Dai shouted in response to the banging, though he was already halfway to their table with a fresh glass in hand, and his expression bore only good humour. He put it carefully on the table, guiding Snape’s hand to it with a practiced motion. Then he picked up the card, letting it scrape loudly on the table as he did so, and stood looking at it for a few long seconds. He tapped the card in his hand a couple of times before sliding it back onto the table. “There y’are Reg, all went through.” He said, and winked at

Harry conspiratorially. He smiled in return, pretending to understand. He didn’t get all this modern muggle stuff, and simply carried cash to avoid it, but obviously something wasn’t as Snape assumed.

“I think he overcharges me,” Snape said when the man’s footsteps had receded. That would explain the wink, Harry supposed.

“Atrocious,” he said, because it felt like he was expected to comment. “Taking advantage like that.”

Snape nodded, and they lapsed into silence. He let himself relax - as far as anyone could relax on an old church pew - listening absently to the background pub sounds while he thought about the case, and about life. Mostly the former. It was good to have some time just to sit quietly, with no expectations and a pint of good beer.

Harry drank more slowly than he could remember doing recently, feeling no urgency to get pissed and drink away his thoughts. He felt strangely, uncommonly calm. This corner of the pub was quiet even when someone turned on the jukebox in the main room, although he frowned trying to recognise the muffled song. He’d definitely heard it before, could feel the catchy lyrics poking at the edge of his mind. When his glass was finally empty several songs later, he turned it slowly in his hand until Snape was also finished with his. He was possibly the slowest drinker Harry had ever encountered. Neither of them had spoken again, but somehow it wasn’t awkward. What would they possibly want to talk about? He stood up before the other man could start banging his stick. “I’ll get us a round. Whiskey?”

Snape hesitated, then held up his glass without a word, so Harry took it and walked to the bar. He caught Dai’s eye. “Another pint, and a double of whatever he’s been drinking.”

Dai looked surprised. “Staying for another, is he?”

The woman on the sofa ooh’d as if this was an interesting development in an ongoing story. “Unprecedented,” she informed Harry, and Dai nodded in confirmation.

Good to know he was making gossip even where no one knew who he bloody well was. Then again, he was a nosy bugger himself. “He never stays late?”

“Oh no, mate. He’ll stay till closing often enough,” Dai answered as he poured Harry’s pint. “He’ll just sit all night with the same glass, two at most. Three drinks in one evening is unheard of.”

“Yeah well, I’ve been known to drive people to it,” Harry grumbled. He folded a tenner in half and stood it on the bar. “How often does he come by? Never drinks his own beer?”

“Interested, are you?” the woman asked with an insinuating grin and a suggestive wiggle of the eyebrows. Harry frowned at the implication. He was only asking questions, for fuck sake.

“Hey now Sands, keep the filthy stuff inside your head please.” Dai placed Harry’s pint on the mat with an apologetic grimace, and turned to fetch the whiskey. The woman wiggled her eyebrows again, belaying Dai’s following words: “I run a respectable establishment here, you know.”

Harry hummed in what he hoped could be taken for agreement. Dai swapped the whiskey for the crisp paper note, and didn’t come back with change. Harry was about to turn away when the man spoke again, leaning on the bar in a purposefully casual way. “Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, four o’ clock regular. Always whiskey, although he’s not fussy on the brand. Lives up Barrod way.” He paused, gave ‘Sands’ a quick look before continuing. “Horrible little back road, that. A blind man shouldn’t be walking that way alone after an evening of entertainment, especially wearing all black. Always think to myself - he’s gunna get run over, one day.”

Harry twirled on his heel and walked away, followed by the woman’s cackling laughter.

“You can use your bloody stick, next time,” Harry told Snape as he sat down again. He slid the whiskey over, but didn’t help the man find it. Bloody countryside pubs. Then he remembered what they’d said about Snape not drinking much. There probably wouldn’t be another round.

“They’re quite unbearable, aren’t they?” Snape answered, but there was no barb in it. He found his glass without knocking it over, not that Harry had been worried.

“People usually are,” Harry grumbled, which made the other man snort so he carried on. “Makes you wonder what’s missing in there, that they have so much space in their heads for gossip.”

“Common sense.” Snape said loudly. He took an overly large gulp of whiskey and then frowned at it. His unchanging dark eyes were disconcerting. “Is this a double?”

“Uh, yeah?” Harry said. Who ordered single shots? No one he knew - except Snape, it seemed. Dai could have corrected him, the bastard. If he usually only drank two singles in an evening, then Harry had doubled Snape’s usual drinking quota with his order. He made a face. “Why don’t you drink your own beer?”

The man shrugged, a surprising gesture that unsurprisingly didn’t suit him. “Why aren’t you drinking it?” He asked instead of answering.

“I could be, for all you know.”

Snape’s hand shot across the table, finding Harry’s elbow. His other hand reached more carefully to find the glass, or more accurately Harry’s hand with the glass in it, and pulled it over to his side of the table. Bloody hell, the movement yanked Harry half out of his bench. Snape lowered his head and sniffed loudly, then let go with a look of disgust. “Hobgoblin,” he said. “I can’t abide by the stuff, and neither could you if you’d met one.”

Harry nursed his pint defensively and rubbed the back of his hand where he’d been touched. How was Snape so damn strong? Unsettled, he fell back into his usual drinking pace and got halfway through the pint before thinking to slow down. His stomach rumbled. Ah. He had meant to grab food before meeting with- shit.

He cast tempus. Seven fifty five. Had it really been almost two hours? He should have had four pints by now. No, not pints. Food. Fucking hell.

“Somewhere to be?” Snape asked.

“No,” he said unthinkingly. “Well, yes. But I might as well stay here now. He won’t mind, he knows what I’m like.”

“A friend?”

Well he wasn’t a bloody relative, was he? Snape of all people should know that Harry didn’t have any.

Gods, he hadn’t thought of Sirius in a while. What would he think about Harry’s present company? He’d probably have a good laugh about the blindness, ready a few pranks. Bit of an arsehole, really - but then so was Snape. And Harry, for that matter. “Surprised you know what the word means,” he said. “I’m almost done, would you drink up? There’s only fourteen more hours until work, and I mean to get totally fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It kills my soul to have a bad-leader Harry haha, so not my headcanon. xD Also please note that in this fic, Severus is totally and completely blind because magic things, but most blind people in real life are mostly blind, orpartially sighted, or can see bright lights, stuff like that. I don't wanna be perpetuating misinformation about what it's like being a blind person, and I totally wanna write a partially-sighted character in the future also.


	3. Chapter 2

“- and then, I was like… Why would a man, any self specting- resp- Why would a thief take the earrings and, and no the ring? Rings’s so much easier to remove.”

“It was the maid,” Sneverus informed him, pointing a finger over Harry’s shoulder. He turned to look, but there was nothing there, and he nearly slipped off the bench. Sneaky bastard. He snatched the man’s hand to stop his tricksy games, and then looked at it in confusion. What was he saying? Oh yeah.

“There wassno a maid,” he said patiently for the third time, shaking Snape’s hand up and down in time to the words. “I never mentioned any maids, it was the opera place - house. Fucking loud, can’t underssan the words. I was _saying_ they left the ring on the body. Why leave ring?”

“It was the husband,” Snaperer...us guessed again. He’d make a horrible auror.

“Ah. Y’see she didn’t _have_ a husbun! Ring, but no husband. That’s what tipped me off cos af’er the divorce I couldn’t get rid o’mine fast nuff and supped- supp _osed_ ly she hated his guts.” Harry paused to take a swig, and for dramatic effect. “So I worked it out.”

Snaverav frowned. “It was the maid.” Harry ignored him, the man clearly couldn’t hold his drink.

“He didnet steal the ring because he _put it there_ ,” he finished triumphantly. He was very smart to have realised this. People never noticed how smart he was in his brain. “Sick bastard wanted her to belong t’im for all eternities.”

“They’re all bastards,” Snipenus agreed, pointing again. Harry inspected the man’s hand, wiggling the fingers up and down, turning it over. “Promise you a life, and then they run off with some… some _mission_ to save the world from darkness, and _never you mind_ the years you spent together.”

Harry hummed in agreement, shaking the hand again. It was so good to talk to someone who understood. “Yeah, or they cheat on you and it’s ‘parently all your own bloody fault for, for bein a workiholic. For wanting t’ do your job all good.”

“Bastards,” Snapey said again, nodding.

Something tapped at the side of Harry’s head, tip tip tap, flutter. He let go to swat it away but it was insistent and came right back, almost getting him in the eye. He managed to catch the small paper plane. Probably Ron having a drama about how he didn’t show up. He broke the seal, taking a deep breath to steady his hands. He blinked a few times to get the writing in focus, and then read the words out loud. “There’s been another one, come immed-imm… _now_. Ah, shit.”

Serial thieves didn’t usually do two on the same bloody day, it wasn’t fair. It took way more time to investigate than to commit a crime! They should wait for him to catch up first.

He stood, stumbled a bit. Snape looked as sharp as ever, his posture straight, even though Harry knew he was definitely pissed. “Gimme your sobering potion, got work,” he said, holding out a hand to the potioneer.

“Don’t have one,” Snape replied, but his hand went protectively to a jean pocket. Perhaps being blind, he’d forgotten that other people could see his hands. Of course he had a sobering potion, he didn’t walk home along Barrod way in the dark in _those_ clothes drunk. He was way too serious and careful for that.

Harry went for it, should have had the advantage, but Snape was somehow both faster and stronger than he was. Still, Harry quickly had his fingers locked around a cold, smooth object in Snape’s pocket, even if he was now trapped there by the other man’s vice grip. He was pinned in place. “Need it,” Harry insisted, trying to wriggle the thing out. “Come on, I need go t’ work.”

Snape poked him in the eye with a second object, giving himself an advantage that he used to twist Harry’s hand out of his pocket without the potion. Bloody-

“Take it, go on. Bloody aurors,” Snape said.

Oh. The second object _was_ the potion. He took it with a grim smile. Who carried potions in every bloody pocket, anyway? He couldn’t have known which was the right one. “Thanks,” he mumbled, uncorking it. He threw it back, and barely had time to take a breath before it came back up. Like a fish hook inside his stomach, it pulled everything else up with it.

He threw up with just enough time to turn from Snape, spattering the carpet with liquid. Gods, he really should have eaten something today. It was just water. “Jesus bloody Christ,” he gasped afterwards, spitting into the puddle. He glanced up the room to check what the muggles were doing, figured that the music had covered the sound, and quickly scourgified the carpet. His head felt clear, probably more so than usual. “What was _in_ that?”

Snape smirked. “I’d tell you,” he said, enunciating his words very carefully, probably to appear less drunk than he was. His head was turned in Harry’s vague direction. “But you couldn’t possibly hope to understand the answer.” 

Right. Harry rubbed his forehead. There was a lot about this evening that he would have to unpack later. Severus Snape. It had felt perfectly normal at the time, being drunk and telling stories. He frowned to himself. He was a solemn, melancholy drunk usually, not this cheery storyteller. Never mind. Unpack later. That was his life motto. There would always be a later to unpack and sort through his feelings, see a psych or whatever. And if there wasn’t a later then it wouldn’t even matter if he did none of those things now, right? Right.

“Don’t apparate home,” he told Snape, then remembered what Dai had said about the road. “And don’t walk home either. I’ll have the barman order you a taxi.”

Snape groaned at that. “Can’t you side-along me? Ah, but you’re not allowed in the house. I have _secrets_.”

Harry sighed. “I can’t apparate, my leg would fall off. It’s-“ Ah. That part of the injury was secret. No one could know that an Auror, especially one with as big a target on his back as Harry, couldn’t apparate his way out of danger. Well, the information was probably safe with Snape, as strange as that was to admit. “I have to go. I’m sure Dai will tell you when the taxi’s here.”

He stood there awkwardly a moment longer. Were they supposed to shake hands again, or what? He didn’t know the protocol for departures from near strangers you knew years ago, who you got really drunk with but you’re sober now. Snape saved him the effort of thought by waving him off and then turning back to his drink as if Harry were already gone. Alright then. 

He asked for the promised taxi to be ordered, then found his way back to the alley he’d appeared in, and found a series of horseshoes balancing on nails along one wall. He squinted to make out the writing on each, eventually picked up the one engraved with the word MoM.

Another sickening journey later, and he was at Ministry HQ. He found a memo box and scrawled a quick note saying that he was grabbing a fresh change of clothes, and for someone from the team to meet him outside the twelfth basement bathroom in a quarter hour with a portkey to the crime scene.

Then he rushed up there to have a piss and clean up as much as possible. The world wobbled a bit around the edges. Was it the sleep deprivation, the alcohol, the sobering potion or the fact he hadn’t eaten in over thirty hours? His fingers felt tingly and his eyes began to throb with a dull flu-like ache. He was just getting old, he decided. Nothing he could do about it.

Once in front of a mirror, he spelled himself and his clothes clean and then transfigured the fabrics. No one needed to know that he’d been wearing them for three days. His grey jumper became deep green, his shirt a yellowish cream with round-edged collars. His trousers turned dark brown, and then black when he realised he’d turned himself into a fucking tree. He found a comb in one of the cupboards, tried for a minute to tame his mop and then gave up. He didn’t have the time to shave, but resolved to do so at his earliest opportunity. A beard was way too much upkeep. All that trimming malarkey, just to look clean and presentable when he could achieve the same effect by chopping it all off.

He was already hobbling back to the door when DeRobles knocked and opened it. Seeing Harry, he held up a small figurine of an egyptian mummy with a curved staff in its hands. The portkey.

Harry felt his stomach tighten looking at it. He’d used more of the damn things today than he had in the previous five put together. His nerves really needed a rest, but then he was Harry bloody Potter, wasn’t he? There was never any rest.

Without stopping to ask for details, he grabbed DeRobles’ arm for extra stability and then touched the portkey, activating it. They were transported almost instantly.

As they landed, Harry let out a gasp and doubled over, clutching his damn-bloody- _fucking_ leg. It was there. It was still there. He pressed his palms against the pulsing wound, feeling warm blood seeping into the trouser fabric. “Fuck,” he gasped again. “Fucking _hell_.” Yep. Definitely too much portkeying for one day.

“I’ll arrange a car to take you home,” DeRobles said quickly, half turning to look for someone to order. His face was painted with concern, bordering on panic. 

“Later,” Harry ground through his teeth, forcing himself to straighten with a struggle. “Case first.” Holy fucking merlin’s mercy.

They were in the entrance lobby of the Greater London Museum of Magical History. He’d been here once, just to see if it really was as boring as people said. There were very few actual magical items on display, as it leaned more towards the history side of things. Significant treaties, a few paintings in a small gallery upstairs, and some rare books and objects that Harry personally thought should have been binned three hundred years ago. Still, it was a grand entrance hall for a grand, if small, building. The floors were cream marble, the walls a slightly coarser yellowish stone. Sandstone, he thought, but what did he know about rocks really? Whatever it was, it was cleanly carved into panels and columns that seemed to have a strong Egyptian influence. That explained the portkey. The ceiling was high and painted intricately in gold patterns.

More importantly to his immediate situation, entrance lobby meant umbrella stand. He took a step in that direction, then stopped with a grimace and waved DeRobles towards it. Thankfully, he was one of the brighter types and so he picked out a strong-looking cane in dark, polished wood and brought it over without a word. “Good man,” Harry said as he took it. It was as close to a thanks as he could manage without admitting out loud that he’d needed help.

He started towards the stairs, but the auror coughed and pointed to a doorway on the same floor. Huh, not the paintings gallery then. It was either a second thief, or this one was diversifying. Maybe there was a little cow statuette that had belonged to a philosopher of centuries past.

Harry followed, grinding his teeth against the pain as beads of sweat began to roll unpleasantly down his back. He really needed to start carrying more pain relievers around with him, not that it usually got this bad. He hadn’t been on fieldwork in what felt like a lifetime. As they walked down a long hall - slower than he liked - the auror presence increased. They passed assistants putting up barriers to keep out the public, not that they got all that many visitors here so far as Harry knew - especially not after closing hours. They were motioned to the second door from the end, a fancily gilded thing in cream and gold paint. “The Ministry, a History” read a plaque to the side. The most boring room in the entire wizarding world.

Zantia and Mosser were standing with an elderly man with long white moustaches and what looked like three separate waistcoats in a gradient of orange-brown shades. The room was around ten feet cubed, the ceiling uncomfortably high. It gave the impression that the walls might start closing in. Like the door, the room was themed in creams and rich yellows with gold accents. Golden plaques named and described objects in glass cases set on stone pedestals throughout the space, some against walls or even built into them, others standalone.

Harry scanned the cases, found the empty one and limped up to it. He saw Zantia frown from the corner of his eye, which made him frown too. He hated when people got worried about him, as if he wasn’t big enough or ugly enough to look after himself.

_Glazed Clay Pot_

_Presented to the Minister for Magic Sn Feneristo Do’ann Ri Monterowwe, on the occasion of his wedding to Ms Christine D’Uvant by the Committee for Behavioural Corrections in return for his dedication and belief in their cause. The pot is believed to have been crafted and glazed at the Obula Pitts in Cornwall circa 1527, characterised by the pure white clay and resulting clear, unmuddied glaze colours. Potter unknown._

The plaque went on to detail the dates of Feneristo’s tenure as minister, the breakdown of his marriage and subsequently his job and sanity. Harry had never related more to a man who had been dead for hundreds of years.

The case was empty, but there was no sign of breakage. No crack, not even a fingerprint on the shining glass. He tutted - it would be just their luck that the cleaner had already been through, mindlessly doing their job.

The others had drifted over to him, saving him the journey. “Sir,” Mosser said. “This is Mister Laelwinn Portisfoot, chair of the committee that runs the museum.”

Harry turned, holding out his left hand since he was still leaning heavily on the cane in his right. “Good evening, Mister Portisfoot. I understand that you’ve been helping my team with the investigation, but if you could answer a few of my questions then I would appreciate it.”

The man smiled briefly, showing wrinkles in his face that looked comfortable and familiar there. He was a man used to smiling, despite the worried crease that currently sat between his brows. “Of course, of course,” he answered with a voice much faster and more spry than Harry would have guessed from looking at him. “I am a man of history, ergo repetition is part and parcel, please ask away.” His thin, bony hands moved energetically as he spoke, as if to waft away an annoying bug.

“Let’s start with the time, and work our way up…” Harry began.

So Portisfoot explained, seemingly not at all put out by the repetition.

The pot was discovered missing about two hours previous, and on-site security had gone through their own checks before contacting the ministry. The chairman himself had walked around the museum, as he did every day ‘ _for the joy of it’_ apparently, between six and seven in the evening. The pot had been present at that time. He was adamant about this because it was one of his favourite pieces, and he often stopped to admire it.

“Can you describe it for me?”

“Ah, of course, I am quite intimately familiar with all of our curios you know,” Mister Portisfoot replied quickly. “It’s about so big, just large enough to fit into the palm - designed to hold a small amount of tabac I imagine. Or perhaps calligraphy sand, Feneristo was quite an avid fan of all _sorts_ of calligraphic arts. He might have become an artist, if not for the pressures of his father, hmm. Oh! The pot, yes yes I’m quite sorry. Round. Flat indented lid without a hinge, just pops off the top, very nice movement I should imagine. Gosh, what I would do to get my hands on it just once, feel that lovely smooth glaze under my fingertips, and now someone else has beaten me to it! Nasty business, very nasty.”

So it was a small round pot. Harry suppressed a sigh. “Anything more distinctive about it?”

“Oh of course, of course yes. Distinguishing features, how silly of me! You know it wouldn’t be my favourite if not for the distinguishing features, it is a very distinguished pot let me say. White on the inside, or so it’s said, and an absolutely charming blotted green outside. Ah, pale green that is, almost white, and textured with slightly darker pastel shades. Such a pretty, dainty little thing.” Mister Portisfoot rambled on, though the speed at which the words shot out dampened any impatience Harry might have felt. “Oh, and I haven’t seen it for myself seeing as it always sits on its bottom of course, but the underside was described in the catalogue to have been etched with the initials DH. Most probably the potter, although I couldn’t verify it. Unknown chap, though clearly very talented, especially for his time. Shame he hasn’t got the recognition he deserved, even after death. Ah, but such is the way, such is the way…”

“That’s a few things now you say haven’t been verified - does no one take the objects out to dust them, no restoration or anything like that?” Harry asked.

“Oh! No, no, no of course not. No. The pot hasn’t been moved nor turned over since it was placed in the case back in - humm, I do believe it was seventeen-fifty-five. No, _four_ . The same year Corian Smith wrote _The Humble Bee And Me_. Quite a lovely composition of poetry, that. Hmm, quite lovely.”

Two hundred and fifty odd years, and _now_ it disappeared. Was it political? Things were fairly stable in that regard recently, with no major incidents or scandals since Hermione had taken up her post as Minister for Magic five years ago. He carried on with his questions, filtering out the useless information.

The building was guarded with anti-apparition wards apart from the entrance lobby, but Mr Portisfoot stressed that the wards were very old and unreliable, and someone could push through if they were skilled and experienced enough. Harry shuddered just thinking about trying something like that, with his leg. Even without the injury, it was a quick way to a splinching. There were guards stationed about the place, but there hadn’t been a successful theft _ever_ so they acted more like tour guides than security most of the time.

“Never?” Harry asked with raised brows when Mr Portisfoot made that statement. Even Gringotts couldn’t say it had _never_ been robbed. And this place was over half a millennium old! “Not even once?”

The chairman bristled at having his honesty questioned. “We have the most advanced magical safety system in the known world,” he explained impatiently. This hardly seemed likely, considering that he’d literally just said that the anti-apparition wards were fading. Oh, and the fact that they had just been burgled. The elderly man tapped the empty case with a hand. “These are null-magic cubes. There isn’t a spell in existence that can break them open.”

Harry strongly doubted that, and had never heard even passing reference to a ‘null magic’ anything.

“Would you care for a demonstration?” The man asked, sensing his disbelief, and before anyone could think to stop him he had his wand out and pointed at another case across the room. “Bombarda!”

Harry’s back hit the wall as both Mosser and Zantia tackled him, putting themselves between him and the expected explosion. Who the fuck used bombarda in an enclosed space? Insane people, that’s who.

And yet there was no bang, no rumble as the building collapsed around them. Not even a flash of light or scattering of rubble.

“Get off!” Harry growled when the other two didn’t immediately let go of him. The sudden movement had torn his fragile wound again, just when the pain had started to dull, and their presumptive actions had torn his equally fragile ego. He shook them off, stopped just short of hitting Mosser in the shin with his new cane.

The room looked exactly as it had a few moments earlier. He was sure he’d seen the spell’s light hurtling towards the case, but there was no sign of it. Null magic… It was impossible, wasn’t it? He took out his own wand, pointing it at yet another case. The chairman didn’t look at all concerned, unlike Harry’s aurors. “Incendio!”

Blazing fire streamed towards its target, releasing a blast of hot air that blew the hair away from his face and parted DeRobles’ deep grey robes. The three aurors jumped back, but no one dove on him this time.

When the fire hit the case, it- just disappeared. All that energy, all that power and it simply… ceased to be. Harry scowled, taking it as a personal affront, and stepped forward once. He concentrated, increasing the power until he could barely contain it in a single stream, but still it did nothing but singe the hairs on the back of his hand. He let the spell fizzle away, wiped the sweat from his forehead. What the fuck.

The chairman looked smug, and Harry supposed that he’d earned it.

“How does it work?” He asked.

Portisfoot shook his head, wincing as if it physically hurt him not to know the answer. “They haven’t been touched, changed or rearranged in at least two hundred years. I’m afraid that information was lost during the tenure of Chair Sirius Larot Wistbund, who was a bit of a megalomaniac hmm. He hoarded knowledge, that man, and was unwilling to share what he found with others. Some people are like that, you know. They just can’t stand the thought of other people having things. In fact, in seventeen-ninety-nine it was widely publicised that he burnt down the-“

Harry waved for him to stop talking, which surprisingly worked. “It doesn’t matter. We already know the case wasn’t broken, it’s right here. We’ll find out what information we can, and share what we find with you. In the meantime we’re going to need a list of anyone who has shown an abnormal interest in it in the last year. Visitors who asked too many questions, maybe someone on your committee who has always shown a liking for it. Anyone like that?”

“I assure you, there is no one who-“

Harry’s leg was now throbbing with such pain that the corners of his vision were starting to darken, and he could hear a rushing noise in his ears. He ignored both, rushing to wrap up the interview.

“It’s that, or we grab a list of every single visitor from the last year for comparison with our other ongoing cases. In fact, let’s get both lists, if you please.” He was talking to his aurors now. “When will forensics be here? I know it’s after hours, but let’s try to get this done tonight so the museum can open as usual in the morning…”

DeRobles groaned. It was the most boring kind of leg work, gathering names. Harry was pleased though. Serial thieves had more chances to make mistakes. Things were starting to look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fu fu fu I think I wrote that drunk scene sometime after the Sherlock episode aired where they got drunk together. Keep meaning to fanfic the heck out of that, but this will do.


	4. Chapter 3

Harry stared blearily down at the papers in his hands. It had been fifteen hours since the second theft, and they were in the process of building a profile for the thief. He’d gotten home after two in the morning, meaning to head straight for bed but had decided in the moment to have a little nightcap to help him sleep through the pain in his leg. Of course, with the residues of the sobering potion in his blood it had taken half a bloody bottle of scotch. Now he regretted it.

Another day, another hangover, and his eye bags grew.

His leg was still raw, and he suspected he’d have to get it checked out at St Mungos - after they were done with the case. He leaned back in his chair, addressing the four aurors in his office. He couldn’t stand for long enough to do it in the hall. “What’ve we got so far?”

Mosser went first. “Sir. We have a lot of unsolved burglaries in the last year, but none of the ones reported to us match the MO, not with the information we have right now.” He glanced at DeRobles next to him. “But uh, we might have a third. A first, actually, that went unreported. A friend of ours in private security has another friend, who let slip about his boss being extremely upset over a theft on the property. I couldn’t get much information, but it sounds like another impossible one so I’ll be going to the registry this morning to find out who his employer is.”

Harry nodded. Probably one of the pureblood families, if they hadn’t come to the ministry. They’d be looking to solve the problem in a more… creative way. They wouldn’t be happy with the law barging in on their hunt, but they’d just have to cope. “And you?”

DeRobles shrugged. “We were working together then got pulled onto the pot case. Want me to walk through it?”

“Painting first.” Harry replied. “Zantia? Anything on the method?”

“Still working on it. I visited Headmistress McGonagall yesterday to ask about my theory, and you were right. A process like that would cause irretrievable damage to the painting, and would be impossible on something as solid as a clay pot I reckon - although that happened after my meeting, so who knows.” Another dead end, then. She quickly carried on though: “She got me on to another theory however, and I’m expecting a few books today. The third branch of teleportation. Apparition, transportation - that’s portkeys and the floo, self-shopping cupboards and the like - and finally transiciation. Literally making a hole for the object to sort of... fall through, sideways. Or maybe upwards, it’s a bit hypothetical to be honest since there are no known spells that achieve it. Incredibly unstable, it would need some heroic focus from whoever cast it if it’s even possible.”

“Would they need to be in the same room?”

She raised her hands, palms open. “Maybe. We’d already be talking a fairly powerful wizard to do even that - but if they cracked it, then potentially? Could do it from the other side of the world, so long as they could focus on the spot, visualise it clearly enough in their mind’s eye.”

Well, shit. Harry rubbed an eye, thinking. “Well, we can safely say that neither the painting nor the pot have moved so much as an inch in the last five years. I mean, the pot hasn’t moved in hundreds. So if this turns out to be the method, then we’re looking for pretty much anyone in the entire world, who visited the locations in the last… however long. Longer than we can reliably document without a list of suspects to filter through, that’s for sure.”

“Yessir,” Zantia confirmed.

Hell, they’d better hope this third possible case was a bit more revealing. “Tina?”

She stepped forward, bobbing her head uncertainly as she shuffled through the wad of papers in her hands. She was meticulous in some ways, but disorganised as a fucking tornado at times. “Um, yes, sorry. Let me just…” She pulled out a sheaf of parchment with the corner turned down and scanned it quickly. “Yeah, so… The painting was created in eighteen-ninety-nine by a muggle-born called Thomas Pane. It depicts a brown cow called Charlotte, who was the prize animal of a rich farmer slash noble at the time, one… Ah, I had his name here somewhere…  _ Dalridium Coe _ . It was a gift to his wife, although by all reports she hated the cow and twice ordered the painting burned. It survived, and on her husband’s death she sold it to a lower noble, one Patrick Goyle, who it’s thought may have been Dalridium’s... um. Secret lover.”

Great. Bloody love affairs were everywhere - every single case they took, there seemed to be at least one. It always put Harry in a sour mood.

“As in the death eater Goyles?” he interrupted.

Tina looked up, fazed. “Um.” She flicked through the papers again, choosing a thin yellowed one that folded out to twice its size. She pushed her glasses up her nose with the back of a wrist, squinting. “Yes, I believe so. I haven’t confirmation that the vault belongs to that family still, but that was the last and only known sale of the painting. Much of their estate was confiscated after the war, including the contents of one vault… Ah, number 881. It’s not uncommon for the old families to have multiple vaults for storage of unwanted valuables, and they wouldn’t necessarily want anyone knowing about them.”

Harry snorted. The pureblood families had hardly suffered at all in the aftermath of Voldemort’s fall, at least not monetarily. The ministry had taken what they could in recompense but they couldn’t touch what they couldn’t prove belonged to the death eaters - and so it was the poor who paid most harshly for their crimes, as always. It would certainly explain why the goblins were being so tight-lipped about the vault owners. “Anything else?” he asked.

“So far as I can tell, the painting is no more than it seemed. No record of charms, or even any particular skill. Just a painting of a cow in a field, less valuable than almost any other in the room.”

“Speaking of the others, Dowell you were looking into that. Any reason someone might be out to destroy them?” Harry asked, turning to the final member of his team.

The man shook his head. “Not so far as I can tell. It’s difficult, without knowing who the vault belongs to. I spoke to the auctioneer up at Windle Hall, showed him some photographs and he said with the information he had it looked like maybe two to three thousand galleons’ worth of damage. He said the frames were more valuable than the paintings themselves - some of them are eighteenth century plaster, very collectible.” He grimaced then. “But with the second theft there wasn’t anything else around to get damaged, so I’m not really sure this is relevant any more.”

Neither was Harry, but there was no such thing as useless information. “We took a gamble, it didn’t work out. We move on,” he said, and then he held up a small photograph of the clay pot. “To this. What’ve we got so far?”

“Not much more than was on the plaque. Green pot created by an unknown potter with the initials DH in Cornwall, unknown weight; size approximately three inches in diameter, one and a half inches tall. Very small holding capacity, because the walls are a quarter inch thick including the glaze.” DeRobles rolled off, who unlike Tina didn’t need to so much as glance at his notes. It was good to have him back from holiday, the man had an incredible memory capacity - and common sense to boot. If only he had a bit of initiative or ambition, he’d be the perfect auror. “The Obula Pitts still have a gift shop and museum at the site, so I’ve sent a couple of the Generals down to see if we can find out more about the potter.”

Generals, though the name sounded grand, was what they called the aurors who didn’t belong to any particular department. Legwork for hire, always looking for ways to make it onto a team. They were the wizarding equivalent of bumbling police officers on the beat.

Harry nodded. “They’re a few hundred years apart, but we can’t rule out some familial or characteristic similarity between the creators. Maybe our thief is collecting items from men who innovated in a particular type of magic, or at the end all their initials will be an anagram for their own name, I don’t know. Ideas. What are the similarities? Has our pot ever been owned by a dark wizard? Did Minister Monterowwe or his wife have links, extreme anti-muggle tendencies? What do we know?”

No one answered immediately, and Harry was about to bark the question again when Zantia started speaking with a placating gesture. “We haven’t been able to look into the pot’s history yet. He was kind of an obscure Minister, wasn’t really famous for anything other than the breakdown of his marriage. A placeholder between Sylvain and Gostace-Bradford. Nothing politically tumultuous happened during his tenure so far as we can tell, and he only held the position for fourteen months. He was married for about a year.” She turned to Tina. “But we do have some information on the Committee for Behavioural Corrections who presented it to him.”

“Hm? Oh, right.” Tina shuffled her papers again, dropping one or two in the process, which DeRobles bent to pick up. She took them back without a word of thanks. “The CBC has a long history, starting even before the Ministry itself. It held a lot of power until the late 1860s, when it started to dwindle due to political pressure and the ministry gaining strength and support. They were finally disbanded only fifty years ago after a scandal in which the Master of Corrections’ son was discovered in bed with another man.”

“Sexual deviance was one of the behaviours they liked to correct,” Zantia added for context. “The master turned his back on it all and accepted his son, refusing to send him to one of the correctional schools he himself oversaw.”

Harry started clicking his fingers, mind jumping sluggishly from one thing to another. It was so difficult with data this limited, to know what would be relevant. This was a very interesting piece of history for sure, but what were the chances it was connected to the case? He rubbed his cheek, realised that he still hadn’t shaved. “Do we think this is connected? If they were after objects connected to that story then there are bound to be better ones than a pot given to someone else in a different era entirely.”

“Unless the Minister for Magic was gay,” Mosser said. “He was given the pot by the CBC congratulating him on his marriage to a woman, which makes me think he was an alumni of their correctional school, but it quickly broke down. Maybe he fell back into old habits, had an affair?”

An affair. A  _ gay _ affair. “That would link him to Coe.” Harry agreed slowly. It seemed like a very tenuous link, and with only two data points it was impossible to tell what was a coincidence or not. Hell, there were probably tens of such likenesses. Maybe they both had brown hair, and liked to eat bacon for breakfast. It didn’t mean that the correlation was related to the present-day crimes. Still, if someone was targeting thefts based on sexuality then it had the potential to get ugly very quickly. It wasn’t unheard of to have a spate of burglaries leading up to a murder. “Can we get a list of prominent or well-known figures from the current day, who are out as gay? Let’s just say gay men for now. They could be targets in the future.”

The aurors glanced at each other, making small head-shaking gestures and communicating with their eyebrows as if he couldn’t see as well as the rest of them. “It’s not really the sort of thing people talk about, sir,” Zantia answered when it was clear that the others wouldn’t. “It’s not that there’s anything wrong with being- like that, it’s just… You know, behind closed doors. I can’t think of anyone who is publicly out.”

What?

“Really? Not one?” Harry asked with a frown. “There must be gossip. Give me the hypotheses and hearsay. I’m not asking for a hit list, just some people to look out for if our thief is gearing up to a more modern target.”

Zantia bobbed a nod, still looking uncomfortable. They all did - Dowell looked almost panicked at the idea. Bloody wizards, he forgot sometimes how behind muggles they were in many ways. He eyed them all angrily. “Now you listen here, there is nothing wrong with homosexuality. It’s not a bloody disease to make you all worried for your health, and I swear if I sense even the smallest bit of hesitation out of one of you, I’ll send you all on a muggle HR training course and see if that bores some sense into you.” He was rapidly losing patience, along with the last droplets of energy left in his pool from the last few days. He really,  _ really _ should eat soon. “Anyway, there are other angles on this. Two, maybe three impossible thefts, no calling card. They want it to be a challenge, and they want us to know how damn clever they are - but they’re not leaving any clues.” Clever and careful, his least favourite combination. They’d get bored eventually though, desperate for attention. Individuals this clever just had to let  _ someone _ see how smart they were.

That was his gut feeling, anyway. Someone was showing off. They weren’t in it for the items themselves - a clay pot and a painting of a cow? Yeah, right. It was a statement, and it was targeted at someone. The thief was sending a message, and Harry needed to find out what it was and who it was for. That was how they’d crack this one, he was sure.

Finally fed up, he growled that the aurors all had tasks to be getting on with.

As they filed out, a bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, and he realised that he was feeling very hot.

The throbbing from his thigh had grown quickly worse during their meeting, rising suddenly now that he had no idiots occupying his thoughts. He stood up, blinking out the pain blindness that hit him as he put weight on his leg.

It was a wound all the way through. Not just on the surface, but right through muscle, fat and bone. And he could feel that wound both from the side of a body that had lost its leg, and as a leg that had been separated from its body. He felt the agony twice, and it was like fire right down to the marrow. He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

He should never have let them experiment on him. People were so full of shit, promising this or that but in the end - he grimaced as he took a step towards his potions cabinet, and then had to sit back down suddenly. His leg couldn’t support him, and his mind couldn’t handle him trying. “Merlin,” he muttered angrily. Why was nothing simple? He took out his wand to accio a pain reliever, but none came. He was out.

He had to get his life back together. How had he not noticed being low on potions? It didn’t help that he kept them in so many locations - if he couldn’t find one in the cupboard, there’d be one in a drawer or robe pocket. He tried another accio, and then pointlessly checked his desk drawers just in case. He made a quick decision and took a swig of whiskey to take the edge off, followed by a second larger swig. It didn’t help with the pain, but he felt better all the same.

He leaned back in his chair, massaging his lower thigh between the wound and his knee to distract his brain and soothe the tense muscles there. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He sat for a while, just breathing and trying not to retch when nausea hit him. He stared at his hands. He should probably… something. He couldn’t think clearly. Fuck, it hurt. Breathe in, breathe out...

He almost jumped out of his skin as a hand appeared on his arm. It was Zantia. Bloody nosy woman, what did she want now? She turned away from him, towards the door. He caught the end of her sentence “-a mediwitch, now.”

Oh great, getting the doctors involved. And then his friends would all come, and they’d be  _ worried _ , and suggest some little changes he could make here or there. Yes, he knew he should eat regular meals, yes he knew that alcohol was not a meal, yes he knew that sleep was necessary and that he should change his clothes every day. Knowing it didn’t make it happen, though. Knowing that he needed to sort himself out didn’t magically make him give enough fucks to actually do it.

The door slammed shut with a spell from Zantia, and she turned back to him with worry and anger. “Have you been drinking?” She hissed.

He let his head roll back. He was so bloody fucking tired. “I had a shot of whiskey a few minutes ago. No pain relievers,” he explained. His voice was strong, which pleased and grounded him. He wasn’t a pathetic mess just yet.

“And you didn’t think to ask anyone for one? Didn’t think to tell us that something was wrong?” Zantia demanded, then tutted and her face softened. “We’re your team. It’s literally our job to support you, but you’d not ask for support even if the grim reaper himself stood over you. What’re you keeping whiskey in the office for, anyway? This isn’t the nineties.”

Harry huffed a laugh. The grim reaper? “I’ve already faced death once,” he told her. That was leaving out the times he’d willingly put himself in that position, of course. No one needed to know about the rope in the bottom of his wardrobe. That was all behind him now, anyway, he hadn’t even looked at it in months - he was trying to avoid it by never going home. Keeping busy, distracted.

Zantia made him drink some water, probably his first in a long while, and they sat in silence until the mediwitch arrived a few minutes later. Amazing how quickly you could get medical attention as a head auror. She introduced herself as Madam Summs, though they had met before, and ordered Zantia out of the room in the same breath, then had Harry removing his trousers with the next. He hissed as the horrible wound was revealed, but she gave no reaction of surprise. She probably saw this stuff every day.

“I don’t suppose I could order you to bed rest?” She asked, a good sensible woman who knew not to make silly demands he wouldn’t follow. He couldn’t tell if she disliked him in particular, or if it was her general personality.

He grimaced as she inspected the wound. It was red and inflamed, and burned under her fingers. He could almost see the patterns of the magical weaving that kept it stitched together, where it frayed around the edges. Was it supposed to look like that? “If I was the bedrest type, do you think it would have gotten this bad in the first place?” That didn’t make her laugh. She stood back on her heels, appraising him carefully with arms crossed. He looked away.

“Well you’ll be glad to know it’s not about to fall off. I take it you tried apparating?” So bloody quick to judge, the lot of them.

He shook his head, then held in a groan as nausea overtook him. “No,” he said. Merlin, couldn’t she just give him a pain reliever and be gone? He forced his voice to remain strong. “Just took one portkey too many. I was told they’d be fine, but I don’t think they are. Oh, and a goblin jinxed me.”

“Hmm,” the mediwitch said, managing to sound disapproving with just that short sound. “And I’m sure you could have done nothing differently to prevent it.”

Harry tried not to roll his eyes. He could show someone a bloody stab wound, and they’d find some way to make it his fault for not getting eight hours of sleep every night. “So what’s the damage?” he asked, instead of the words that had come to mind first. This woman had an awful bedside manner, but at the end of the day she was here to help and he wasn’t quite enough of a dickhead yet to forget that. “A few potions, a slap on the wrist?”

“A veto on portkey travel until you’re all healed up, and I will prescribe you a trip to St Mungos to see the specialist  _ at your earliest convenience _ .” There was a very distinct but unspoken your majesty at the end of that sentence, which Harry resented. He did what other people wanted him to, sometimes… “If I were you, I would purchase a good cruising broom with ample leg support. In the meantime, I shall leave you with a stock of pain relievers. Don’t drink them all at once, they’re not actually recommended for consumption on an empty stomach. Perhaps you might even deign to eat something like the rest of us mortals.”

God, she was really going at it. How could she even tell? All with the same mild expression and stern, flat voice. It was like being in first year potions class all over again. She took a tall rack double-stacked with small bottles out of her messenger bag, and removed them into a neat row on the table. Harry snatched one and downed it, sighing from the immediate relief. “I’ll have someone send for a sandwich,” he told her placatingly as her lips tightened into a thin line.

“These are for inflammation. Four drops  _ after food  _ no more than once every six hours,” Summs continued as if he hadn’t spoken, laying out two blueish vials next to his pain relievers. She then placed an ointment on the table as well. “Use this before bed, apply it to the inflamed edges around the wound, but not to the opening itself unless you’re feeling particularly masochistic. I’d recommend showering first - I can tell the signs of constant cleaning spells as well as anyone else. It’s just not the same.”

Harry blushed. That was the one thing he truly felt ashamed of. He loved being clean, feeling clean, but it just hadn’t seemed worth the time recently. Nothing seemed worth his time, at least nothing to do with his health or hobbies. He tried to remember the last time he’d gone to a quidditch match, but couldn’t recall. He shook the thought from his mind in case the mediwitch turned out to be a legilimens or something. She had the kind of look in her eye that said  _ I know what you’re thinking _ . The look some no-nonsense old people get after decades of being surrounded by fools and idiots. Nothing Harry could do or say could be as stupid as the other things she had seen in her life.

She left with as little fuss as she’d arrived. Aggravatingly, she repeated her instructions for the potions to Zantia before leaving, as if Harry couldn’t be trusted to look after himself. And Ron was there, holding a couple of grease-stained paper bags. They were working fast today, his  _ support group _ . He invited his mate in and ate his sausage roll mechanically, mind elsewhere as Ron tried to draw him into conversation.

No portkeys, no apparition. He was basically useless, unless he could get something faster than a mobility broom. He did need to go home and sleep, it was true, but only because he doubted that his team would keep him in on the case unless they thought he was well enough to continue. And he had to be. It was the only thing that kept him sane. There had to be some other mode of transportation he could use. Well, there was the floo but that necessitated fireplaces. It would do for longer distances, but these crimes seemed focussed in London - for now, at least. There just had to be something better.

Merlin, this would all be easier if he wasn’t perpetually on the edge of a meltdown. Who knew that midlife crises would last this long- oh.

_ Oh. _

Suddenly, he knew what he needed. He accio’d the cane he’d acquired at the museum.

“-looked back down, it was gone. I swear I’m losing my mind with age. Hey - where are you going?” Ron rose as if to stop Harry, who had downed another potion and slipped a few extras into various pockets. “You need to get some rest.”

“Sure,” Harry agreed, limping around the table. It was amazing what a few little potions could do. He could barely feel his leg at all, and the room seemed brighter for it. “I’ll do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snapey-boo returns next chapter, dw. This is predominantly a case fic, so the romance is a bit slow in coming haha


	5. Chapter 4

She was a beauty. Not that Harry knew anything about bikes. This was definitely his style though - the 1950 Triumph Thunderbird. He’d seen it in one of Dudley’s books growing up:  _ Classic British Motorcycles _ . Out of them all, this had been the one Harry had liked the most. The one in the book had been pale blue, silvery like moonlight. This one was a menace. From far away it looked glossy black, but on closer inspection it was a rich, dark green like a pine forest at night.

There were a few other modifications - the button to turn it invisible, obviously, and another to start it since Harry couldn’t do a kickstart. The engineer called it an  _ accessibility feature _ , and it rankled that he said it so pointedly. The man took him over the more modern features also included, inspired by his time apprenticing with muggles a few years earlier.

“It has an in-built satnav, that’s satellite navigation to muggles, but this one works by magic - a magnav, if you will,” the man explained, reminding Harry of the time Petunia had tried explaining the television remote to her elerdly mother. “You just activate it with this charm, and then name your destination in a loud, clear voice.”

Oh, that brought back memories.

Harry did as instructed, and though what he should have said was “the ministry of magic”, what came out instead was “Barrod Road.”

A small golden feather grew out of his wand, touched the speedometer dial of the bike as if it were a pot of ink, and began writing in the air with glowing letters.  _ Four matches found for Barrod Road. _

“You’ll need to be more specific,” the engineer said helpfully. “For instance, say the town name as well as the road.”

“I don’t know what the town was called,” Harry replied crossly. This man was really winding him up with his patronising tone. He wasn’t  _ that  _ much younger than Harry. “I took a portkey before.” He looked down at the bike, and spoke slowly. “In. England. It. Was. By. The. Sea.”

The engineer had a distinct god-help-me look on his face, one which mirrored how Harry felt inside.

_ Barrod Road, Biddersea. Confirm? _

“Yeah that’ll do,” Harry answered. A town called Biddersea was likely to be by the sea, wasn’t it? It was a one in four chance, and he was feeling daring for once. The feather grew until it was the size of his hand, twirled and then settled just in front of the bike, pointing to the left. He turned to the engineer. “Anything else I should know?”

The man shook his head, stepping back as Harry got on the bike. It was self stabilising, and they’d added cushioning and sticking charms for his leg so it wouldn’t be jolted about too much. He slipped the cushioned leather strap around his knee as well, just in case. It wouldn’t do to rely solely on magic, after all.

The engine grumbled to life with a sound and vibration Harry felt in his lungs. Oh yes, this was exactly what having a midlife crisis was all about. He pulled away, turning sharply into a courtyard to his left. He heard the engineer shouting behind him, “Wait, that isn’t enough of a run-up!”

It was already too late. He ramped up the speed until he was hurtling towards the back of a closed takeaway place at the end of the courtyard, and at the last moment he yanked the handlebars up. For a second or two he did a wheelie, almost falling backwards, and was still headed to the wall at a dangerous speed- then the engine choked once and roared as he shot right up like a rocket, just as the front wheel touched lightly on the brickwork. He laughed, for the first time in bloody ages, imagining the engineer’s expression.

It might have been bigger, clunkier, heavier and more modern than what he was used to - but a broom was a broom was a broom, and riding was like breathing for Harry.

The air grew quickly cold, and he had to drop the speed since he wasn’t wearing any goggles. He’d need to get some proper gear. The engineer hadn’t told him - probably hadn’t expected him to go flying the bike from the offset. People were so cautious these days. What had he expected? That Harry Potter would drive it along the roads for a couple of days just to get used to the feel? Fuck that.

He closed his eyes, letting the wind flow through his hair, and just sat in the feeling for a few minutes. The bike needed no guidance in holding its course or altitude, at least not until he needed to land or if he met with a particularly strong gust of wind. He could almost have fallen asleep, if not for the cold and the stinging pain in his thigh.

It was easier to think up here. No people, no busy rushing sounds or footsteps or chattering. No paperwork, no one coming in to disturb him, no bottle of whiskey calling from the drawer. It was just him, the bike and the wind.

What was the thief after, really? A pot and a painting of a cow, and whatever this third mystery item was? Not bloody likely. It had to be targeted at the people who owned them. Maybe it would turn out that the chair of the museum also owned the vault. That would be a good result, but life rarely worked out that tidily. Besides, Mister Portisfoot had seemed genuine enough. He definitely would have told them if the painting was also his.

Maybe he was a relative of the Goyles, or some other death eater family? Ah.

He shouldn’t call them that. He’d spent a lot of time arguing that the children shouldn’t be punished for the crimes of the parents, even if they’d also taken the mark. He knew how little choice they’d had in the matter.  _ There are no death eater families, just individuals who forced their families along _ … He’d said it so often over the years that it now felt like a lie on his tongue.

Then there was his leg to worry about. The spellwork was clearly deteriorating, even without the help of a spiteful goblin. It would likely become a huge concern in the future. He was a liability already, how much more would the Ministry cope with from him before throwing him out on his arse? He’d been trying not to think about it but the truth was that his squad had always run with four designated aurors and a lead, along with whatever generals they happened to need from case to case. The addition of Dowell to the permanent team clearly meant that they were preparing to let Harry go. Zantia was probably the most capable of taking up the mantle, such as it was. If it came to it, he’d recommend her for the promotion. If he was asked.

Without realising, he’d pulled the bike up higher. He dropped again, shaking condensation out of his hair and jumper. He could taste salt, guessed that he was getting nearer to the sea. All he could see around him was green countryside, but the horizon did look closer. The land met a sudden end a few miles ahead.

Then of course, there was Snape. He slowed, coming to a near hover, and steered left and right in a lazy zigzag over a field of cows. What was he doing coming all the way out here, when there was a case to solve? He cast tempus. Four o’ clock. Well before the end of the workday, yet he’d gotten on his motorbike and driven off to the middle of nowhere just to see an old teacher.

The man was arrogant and miserable, generally a bastard. Even the barman had said so. A right miserable old git. He’d  _ also  _ said that they’d get along, what with Harry also being a miserable old git. Always angry or sad or melancholy. Bloody bitter is what he was, because the world had turned out to be totally shit, even after Voldemort was defeated and it was supposed to be all happy ever afters. Life had continued to be a pain in the arse.

But no one else was having these troubles. They weren’t bruised and torn from all the world’s shit, they were content. Normal. Which could only mean that it wasn’t the world that was shit. It had to be him.

He just didn’t cut it.

Slowly, and with little conscious intent, he slipped left in his seat. The horizon rotated, trees reaching up with long fingers, and he hung upside down, still gliding along. The charms wouldn’t let him fall, but he let go of the steering wheel and imagined it. A few seconds of the world rushing up to meet him, he’d crash into some trees, breaking bones as he fell through the branches like a rag doll. It would surely hurt, but the pain was a far-off concern, something felt through a thick cotton barrier. He hung for a few long minutes, drifting, his mind emptying. It would be a muggle who found him, out for a walk. Maybe not even for weeks. There’d be a big search from the ministry. Maybe a murder investigation when he was found.

What would Ron and Hermione think? Good riddance? That he’d gotten his just desserts for the way he’d been acting for the last few years? 

He was shocked out of the grey feeling as an owl streaked into view and landed on his handlebars in a flourish of grey feathers. It stared peevishly at him, right in his line of sight, until he turned the bike the right way up. Blood rushed out of his head, and he found himself gulping for air. What the fuck was wrong with him? He pulled up before they could glide gently into an oak. The owl shook itself and continued to eye him. He didn’t have any treats for it, but it was a predator - it would just have to go off and find its own mouse to eat.

There was a sizable roll of parchment tied to its leg, which Harry took and stuffed down the front of his jumper before it could get wet. He apologised to the bird and tried to give it a stroke on the neck. That didn’t go too well, and realising that there was no reward coming, it flew off with a threatening hoot.

The guiding satnav feather was turning green, shifting direction with the smallest turn of the wheel. He had to be close.

This was confirmed when he passed over a hedge and discovered a narrow single-track road behind it. He would have dismissed it as a farmer’s track, except that walking right there along it as if he owned the road was Severus Snape. The very man he’d come to see, yet he now found himself nervous. He’d been sort of hoping that Snape would be more difficult to come across, maybe even impossible.

He brought the bike back around and touched down on the tarmac right alongside the wizard, who ignored him. The engine purred as he rolled slowly alongside Snape, calling Harry to give it a rev, but he didn’t. He leaned on the steering wheel with one elbow, relying on the balancing charm to keep him upright - it really was cheating - and put his chin on his hand. “Fancy a ride?”

Snape started, totally surprised at being spoken to, and then carried on walking slightly faster.

Harry easily stayed with him. “It’s Harry,” he said. “Potter, I mean.”

The man stopped, forcing Harry to a standstill as well. “Of course you would ride a motorcycle,” he pronounced. “Are you even wearing a helmet?”

He swiped out with a hand, trying to find Harry’s head. Harry only just managed to duck out of the way in time. “Of course I am,” he lied. “What do you take me fo-“

The second swipe got him, and Snape grabbed a fistfull of hair. “You utter fool!” He hissed, not letting go. Harry was dragged towards him, totally taken off guard by the man’s sudden fury and half hanging off the bike, his leg still tied to the thing by strap and charm. He struggled to stay somewhat upright without grabbing onto Snape for support. “Do you really expect me to get on that thing with you, when you so clearly have no regard for your own safety, let alone that of others?”

Harry wrestled to get out of his grip. Really, how was he so bloody strong? “Fine, fine! I’ll get off and walk, Merlin!” He was released. Bloody git. Why had he come here, again? Oh yeah, he didn’t even fucking know.

He released the charms and strap holding his knee, and climbed off the left side so that he could use it as a crutch while he walked. Snape had already stalked off. “I just got it today, it’s my first ride.” He called ahead. “Would you slow down? I’m pushing a bloody motorbike back here.”

“It’s difficult for me to moderate my walking speed,” the man called back without looking over his shoulder. “Can’t you push any faster? I didn’t have you down for such feebleness.”

Harry ground his teeth. “Yeah, well neither did I but then I had my leg sliced off and magically sewn back on, and you know - funny side effect is that it gets quite hard to push a motorcycle up a fucking hill.”

“Oh.” Was all Snape said. Then he muttered something, making that strange twitching movement with his hand, and finally slowed so that Harry could catch up. They walked in awkward, grumpy silence until he spoke again a minute later. “Can I feel it?”

“Feel what?” Harry asked between breaths. Fucking hell. What was he doing here? What the fuck was he doing here.

“The wound.”

“No,” he answered instantly. Just thinking about it was uncomfortable. His wound was… personal. It was hard enough letting someone touch the parts of him they could see, but no one except for the staff of St Mungos had seen his wound. As Snape had said, it enfeebled him. He didn’t want anyone seeing that. “It’s inflamed at the moment,” he added after a pause, seeing that he’d spoken too forcefully.

“Then why are you here, pushing a bike uphill instead of resting at home? What do you want?” Snape asked. He always had to ask the awkward questions Harry had no answer for, didn’t he?

_ What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood? Why did you come here to speak with me again when you still have a high-profile case going on? _

Harry shrugged, then realised the man couldn’t see the movement. “I thought we could go for dinner,” he said. “Chips or something, I don’t know.”

“Surely there are chips in London?”

They came to a T-junction straight after a blind corner where the road was edged on one side by an earth bank taller than Harry, and on the other by a gappy hedge through which he could see a field of shaggy sheep, marked in places with blue paint. “This is a death trap,” he said, slightly awed by the way muggles engineered their roads. A road sign above them said  _ STOP _ , and Harry wholeheartedly agreed with the thing. “How have you not died?”

Snape stopped at the top of the road, hand twitching again, and then started to cross. There was a grass verge on the other side of the main road. Harry followed nervously, listening out for cars, and then pushed his bike along the road next to the verge. When they were safely across, Snape answered him. “Unlike some, I exercise a healthy caution - and you owe me, by the way.”

Ah. “How much?” He couldn’t remember how much he had on him. He’d not been home to grab any clothes or money.

“Twenty pounds for the taxi, and two galleons and a knut for the potion.”

Harry frowned. Twenty pounds? That sounded like a lot, just to go up the road. Either Snape had been ripped off, or he was ripping Harry off. Luckily for his old teacher, Harry didn’t actually care. “I’ll give you twenty five pounds, I only carry muggle cash.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed anything from Diagon Alley.

“Thirty,” the man countered.

Harry lost his footing on a loose stone, cursing as a jolt of pain stabbed up his leg. He took another step on it, then stopped with a gasp of shock. Merlin. Couldn’t he walk even one bloody mile now? “Twenty five, and I’ll buy you chips. And I’m getting back on the bike now, just so you know. I can’t walk particularly well without... a cane.” God, it rankled to admit that.

Snape stopped just ahead to wait, but didn’t turn around. He’d probably lose his bearings if he turned. It was a little comforting that Harry wasn’t the only one having problems with the simple act of trying to walk alongside another human being. Harry climbed back on the bike, quickly attaching the strap and activating the charms.

He pressed the start button, and the corner of his mouth twitched up at the sound of the engine. He pulled up alongside Snape, who was still standing stiffly in place, frozen like a horrible statue. “I’m ready now,” Harry said, to let him know they could keep going. The man twirled exactly 90 degrees to face Harry, and held up his hands. After a moment searching, he found Harry’s head - far more gently than the first time - and muttered an extra cushioning charm to protect it. Then he twirled back into position, twitched his hand a bit and tugged his grey shirt straight.

“Now you’re ready,” Snape said.

Harry was pretty sure he’d be dead either way if someone hit him, but since he’d already thoroughly demonstrated how little he cared on that front, he kept going without another thought on the issue.

It took another ten minutes to get into town, which started with a big gravel-driveway house here or there, slowly growing closer together until they were travelling along a quiet pavemented terrace road. Harry looked back, half-riding and half-pushing the bike along, and could still see sheep on the hill behind them. The countryside was weird.

“You’ll want to leave the bike here,” Snape said when they reached the top of that road. “The chip shop is a little further, but it’s double yellows so you’ll get a fine for parking there.”

He sure knew a lot about muggles, for a blind and grumpy recluse. Harry stopped, cutting the engine, and detached himself from the bike once again. It was already starting to feel like a chore. He didn’t know what a double yellow was, but he did know the word fine. The bike stood on its own, but he kicked down the stand for appearances sake, and then conjured a chain to hold it to a nearby lamp post. Lastly, he pulled his cane from a magical space inside the left handlebar and remembered to shove the owled scroll from his jumper into a trouser pocket that was more secure.

“Lead the way,” he said when he was ready. It had only been a few hours since lunch so he wasn’t all that hungry, but he was feeling another hot flush so it was probably best to take the inflammation potion. Which meant having to eat food first.

The chip shop was small, not that he’d ever seen a big one, and empty except for the teenage girl sitting on a stool behind the counter. A bell jangled above the door as they stepped inside and they were blasted with a wall of warm air. Harry shivered the last of the cold afternoon off his skin. The smell of chips made his mouth water despite himself and he limped up to the counter, leaning heavily on the cane. “I’ll have a small portion of chips please, and uh…” he turned back to Snape.

“The same.” He looked more uncomfortable and disgruntled than usual, if that was possible - something in his posture made him seem smaller than he had a few minutes ago.

“Right. Two small chips and a pot of curry sauce then, please. And a can of fanta.” He looked up at the price board and fished out a fiver before the girl had time to work out the price of four pounds and sixty pence. He put the change straight into the tip jar, and she gave him an obligatory smile that showed she’d much rather he give her a new job.  _ You and me both,  _ he thought as he twitched a brief equally-obligatory smile back her way.

Snape brushed up beside him and held onto his arm, causing Harry to stiffen uncomfortably. “There’s too much metal interference in here. I may require some aid in finding a seat.”

Metal? Harry realised that Snape was right. Although his first impression had been one of white washed walls and peeling posters, the place was basically a big metal box. Interesting to note this limitation of the man’s… Seeing charm? In his head, it worked like echolocation but he had no idea really. Snape twitched his hand about a lot, and then he knew what was around him. That was the extent of Harry’s knowledge - and now he knew that excessive amounts of metal caused interference. That might come in handy sometime.

He guided his old teacher to a small table that had three chairs, and pulled one out for the man. They were all made of cheap, cold aluminium. Snape sat cautiously, as if he didn’t quite trust that the chair was there until he could feel it beneath him.

Harry followed suit, sighing as the weight was taken off his leg. It felt like his whole life was spent waiting to sit down. He took out the scroll, since it was likely from work, and unravelled it.

_ You’re not allowed back until tomorrow morning, by the way. We’ve been ordered to bar you entry unless you look like you’ve slept. I’m not supposed to be writing this, but I know you must be going insane at home.  _

_ We’ve got confirmation that the vault belongs to the Goyle family, after Tina threatened to stage a sit-in with her two boys. The goblins didn’t last half an hour with their incessant questioning. I guess kids are useful for something, after all. We’ve contacted Desdemona Goyle to gain access to the vault for further forensics.  _

_ Interestingly, or rather disturbingly, Gregory Goyle (who I believe was in your year in Hogwarts? Slitherin.) was moved to solitary confinement in Azkaban last year after sexually harassing and assaulting his (male) inmates. Might be another link to DeRoble’s theory, anyway. _

_ As such, I’ve written a list of men who are rumoured to be gay. I’d take it with a pinch of salt if I were you, though you won’t need me to tell you that when you see the first name on the list. Listed in order of the number and strength of rumours according to Tina’s calculations. Stars next to the name mean there’s been at least one actual sighting that looked clandestine or date-ish. _

Harry turned over the paper, found his own name at the top of the list, and snorted. Snape tapped a fingernail on the table a few times. “Just reading a note from work,” he explained quickly.

_ Lastly, we have a name for the employer of the security guard. I’m afraid to write it in case you come running back to the ministry. I’ll stress this: he is out of the country until tomorrow afternoon. We will not be heading over there or investigating this until then. We don’t need you here, stay at home. Ok? Ok. It’s Draco Malfoy. _

Harry very nearly jumped right out of his seat. Draco Malfoy. First Goyle, and now Malfoy. It was very clearly a link, but what about the clay pot? This opened up so many new avenues for questioning, and he was stuck here waiting for chips with Severus Snape.

“What’s the matter? You’ve gone still.”

The rest of the letter was just an extra note reminding him to take his potions. He turned the page over again and skimmed through the list of names, rubbing a hand over his cheek as he did so. God damn it, he had forgotten to shave yet again. He’d do it as soon as he got home tonight.

He felt a hand on his elbow. “What is it?”

“Just some updates on the case,” he answered, shaking off Snape’s hand. What was with all the touching every time they met? “We think someone might be targeting gay wizards, or those with a history connected to homosexuality. They’ve sent me a list of potential targets, but apparently it’s not something people talk about so I’d guess it’s about as reliable as a broom on fire.”

“Do you want to leave?” Snape asked, frowning as he pulled his hand back. His voice was curiously quiet, probably so that the chip girl wouldn’t overhear their conversation. Of course, he had to live here and wouldn’t want any rumours spreading from a conversation overheard.

Harry shook his head, dropping his own voice to match. “No, I think they have the office warded against me so that I stay in my sickbed,” he answered. “And I wouldn’t worry if I were you. This is basically a list of unmarried men in wizarding Britain between the ages of twenty and fifty.”

Snape sniffed loudly, as if affronted that men over fifty hadn’t been included. Well, none of the ones Harry recognised were older than him anyway. “Don’t worry, you’re looking great for your age,” he said with a grin. “You look exactly the same as you did at Hogwarts, actually.” Though he was teasing, it was mostly true. Other than a few extra lines and one single thin streak of grey in his lengthened hair, the man hardly seemed to have aged a year.

“I am not the type to worry over such things,” he said proudly, and Harry felt his grin widen.

The girl at the counter called out their order, even though they were the only ones in the shop. Harry got up quickly and collected the chips, slipping the fanta into his pocket so that he had enough hands. Walking without his cane was agony, but he could hardly have expected Snape to fetch them. He was half tempted to take his forty pence back out of the tip jar as she stood impassively, watching him struggle.

He dropped the chips onto the table, knocking over the vinegar, and slid a portion in front of Snape. There was no cutlery, so he grabbed his cane with a put-upon sigh and went to fetch two wooden forks, one of which he placed in Snape’s hand. The man scowled and sniffed it, then made a face. Curious, Harry smelled his fork too and found it had a sharp chemical scent. Lovely.

He poured a generous amount of salt, vinegar and curry sauce on his plastic foam plate, and asked Snape if he wanted them.

Snape took the salt, holding on to Harry’s hand while he felt around for his plate. The whole grabbing people’s hands thing was a habit of his, it seemed. He shook the container upside down, scattering salt grains over the table until Harry took over. Straight afterwards, he almost tipped the plate over trying to find it again.

“What was I thinking, I am utterly blind in here,” he grumbled. “The pub serves chips, we should have gone there. Lovely wooden tables.”

“Do you want curry sauce?” Harry asked. The man shook his head.

“Regulus Black was gay, you know. Or bisexual, at the least.” Snape said after a while. He ate very slowly, just one chip at a time. The plate moved around every time he stabbed it with his fork.

Interesting. They hadn’t included dead men on the list, which might have been an oversight. Regulus was both gay and connected to the death eaters. Very high chance that he would be involved in this somehow. “Anyone else?” Harry asked. If there was anyone who might know, it was an ex-death-eater like Snape. He felt a jolt of excitement. He was investigating, and his team never needed to know about it. Oh, how he’d missed doing things in secret.

“Albus, though surely you knew already. It was in that horrible expose Skeeter wrote. No? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you for not believing it, considering the source.” Snape ate another chip.

Harry opened his can of fanta and took out the inflammation potion. There was a dropper on the inside of the lid, which he used to measure out four drops into the drink. “What about the Malfoys?”

Snape paused, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about them, they moved in higher circles than the likes of me. I wouldn’t out a living man, in any case.” He pointed his fork at Harry. “Why don’t you read out that list, and I’ll give you my opinion?”

So Harry did, leaving out his own name, naturally. He didn’t want Snape’s opinion on  _ that _ . The wizard confirmed two of the names with stars next to them, as well as three more, and was totally adamant that another four be struck from the list entirely because they were categorically absolutely straight as barge poles. Most of them weren’t connected to the death eaters at all, so Harry wondered how Snape could be so certain. Then again, he’d probably taught most of them at school. It was the sort of thing teachers were bound to find out, especially spies like Snape.

“Thanks, that’s a big help,” Harry said when they were done. He stretched his leg out, now that the potion was starting to ease the pain, and his ankle brushed against Snape’s foot. He pulled back quickly with an apology.

The man had jumped half out of his skin. Probably the topic of conversation. Despite himself, Harry felt the urge to do it again just to tease the man, but he wasn’t the kind of person to wilfully touch someone else so he bent his good leg as far as he could under his chair instead.

He asked about the charms Snape used for getting around, and got a limited response. Secretive bastard. They spoke idly until they’d both finished their food, stopping every time the bell over the door rang.

“How does your partner feel about your workload, considering the result of your marriage?” Snape asked after a long pause, through which Harry had been watching blurry cars drive past the window. It had begun to drizzle.

He turned to look at Snape quizzically. “I’m the lead auror, I don’t really work with a partner,” he said tensely. “And I’m not sure my marriage is any of their business. Or yours, as a matter of fact.” 

“I meant your  _ romantic _ partner, Potter. You said every eligible wizard was on that list, but you are not. Therefore you are ineligible, yes?”

Oh. Harry released the tension in his chest. He loathed being made to talk about Ginevra. “No no, I’m right at the bloody top. I just didn’t say it because I already know about me.” He’d gone out on exactly two disastrous dates since the divorce. Only with muggles, though. He couldn’t risk witches running off to the papers afterwards. He’d not even considered trying to share his life with someone again.

Trust issues, they called that. Hah. As if he didn't have bloody cause.

“So you’re..?” Snape asked. His voice was casual, unconcerned, but no one asked a question like that unless they wanted to know - and everyone would want to know this. Even Harry had to admit that he would too, in someone else’s shoes.

He was tempted to say yes, just to see what Snape's reaction would be, but then he’d been calm enough talking about Regulus and Albus and the rest earlier. It probably wouldn’t wind him up at all. “I don’t think I’m anything, really,” he said truthfully. Even during his marriage, he’d felt no desire to do anything beyond cuddles on the sofa, and as time went on, even that had become stressful. “I just want to be left alone.”

He suddenly felt very tired. The days had finally caught up with him, or maybe Summs had put a drowsy draught in with the inflammation potion. He hoped not, since he had a long drive home ahead of him. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit knackered. I should probably have followed the mediwitch’s orders and gone straight to bed.”

Snape stood, the metal feet of his chair screeching unpleasantly over the floor tiles. “Imagine that, following the advice of a professional over your own personal opinion.”

“Yeah, that’d be a first wouldn’t it,” Harry replied, guiding the man out into the street, where he waited impatiently for Snape’s charm to kick in. They walked to the bike in silence. The sky was that sunless deep blue of dusk, and the street lights were just starting to flicker to life. “Don’t suppose I can offer you a ride home?”

Snape paused, thinking on it, then shook his head. “As much as I might enjoy the experience, I daren’t risk it without the proper protection,” he said. The orange lamplight shadowed his eyes, making him look even more sinister than usual.

Harry climbed on his bike and started the engine, directed the satnav to Grimmauld Place. “Alright, that’s fair. I’ll bring you a helmet next time,” he told Snape as he dissipated the chain.

“Next time, if there is one, you shall owl ahead to ask if I am available and in want of company,” Snape replied sternly.

The ride home was cold and wet and awful. The wind had picked up, and he was halfway to London before he thought to use charms to warm and dry himself. Honestly, how had he made it to leading a team of aurors? He was such an idiot.

At least he was never this clueless when it came to people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hue hue hue hue hue :DDDD oh Harry but you aaaaare  
> Enter scene left, Draco Malfoyyyyy  
> Thanks to all of the humans who have commented so far, it has warmed my heart greatly


	6. Chapter 5

He drove out of a little alley just a few minutes from home at around half past seven in the evening. He’d gotten horribly lost looking for a place to come down out of view, and the satnav had been no help at all. It kept trying to send him to _Lilles_. He was chilled to the bone despite the warming charms, and he thought he could still feel the vibrations of the handlebars up his arms even after getting off the bike.

Having used up his scotch the night before, he popped into an off licence on the way back to buy another. There was rum on a special offer though, so he ended up buying that instead, along with a bottle of ginger ale to mix it with and some sort of yoghurty breakfast bar thing to take with his potion in the morning. Overall, he felt like a very mature and responsible adult. It was almost eight o'clock at night, and he’d drunk not a single drop. Except for the whiskey at lunchtime.

He wanted to go straight to bed, but he’d stayed sober so he might as well do other things like washing and sleeping and eating. He’d done the last one, so it was time for the other two. And if he poured himself a generous glass to congratulate himself, then that was well and deserved. He shaved, cutting himself only once just under the ear, and got in the shower. It was a shower over a bath, which made the whole getting in and out thing a pain in the arse, until he deftly sliced a hole in the side of the tub.

There was water all over the floor when he got out. He’d have to remember to clean that up in a minute… After he’d found some clean pyjamas and brushed his hair. The conditioner made it much easier, and he made short work of it, worthy of another little drink. He paused for just a moment before pouring, then reminded himself that he’d done amazingly to go so long without today. He bloody well deserved a chance to relax, didn’t he? Between his leg and the case, he had a lot going on.

He fell asleep in his underpants, and woke up in total agony. It was his leg mostly, but his entire body ached. He groggily accio’d his potions and the pack of yoghurt bars, drank down a pain reliever and ate a bar. Without a drink to go with it, he placed four droplets of the inflammatory on his thumb and then licked them off. Augh, sour. He’d forgotten how fucking sour that was.

He lay there for another ten minutes, waiting for the potions to take effect, then got up. With his pain gone, the world always seemed brighter, chirpier. These pain relievers worked bloody miracles. He banished yesterday’s water from the bathroom floor before having the quickest shower of the century and banishing more floor water. He even brushed his teeth, and put on clean robes instead of transfiguring whatever he already had on.

He arrived at the office at half past eight, a full hour earlier than usual, and would have been earlier still except that he hadn’t known where to park the bike. Nevertheless, he was in before Mosser so he could give the man a rinsing to make himself feel better. He wasn’t hungover, which felt awful somehow. Being totally sober and alert from the start of the day made it feel so much longer as it stretched out ahead of him.

He held another briefing, pretending not to have the information already as they told him about Goyle and Malfoy. He took a fresh copy of the list, marking the changes Snape had suggested by crossing off a few names and drawing on the three new stars. He added Regulus and Albus to the list as well. They made plans to show up at the Malfoy mansion at 3pm, which meant Harry needed to leave at 2pm on his bike. His team were very excited about it, asking what model and year it was, and what type of engine it had. How would he know how many strokes it was? What was a stroke, anyway? It was black. Well, dark green, and cool as fuck. That’s what he knew about it.

He sent them scattering to do their jobs, but he wasn’t nearly as grumpy as he’d been the past few days. Turned out food and sleep actually were good for your temperament, and it wasn’t a lie people told him to trick him into eating.

He looked up from the fresh stack of papers on his desk to see that Dowell had hung behind. He was just standing there, waiting to be noticed like some creepy ghost. When Harry jumped, he took a step towards the door. “Do you mind if I close this? I had something, I mean. I thought you should know something. About me.”

Harry nodded, curious and perturbed. He didn’t really want to know anything about the people who worked for him. He didn’t want to care about them, though he was lying to himself thinking he didn’t already. “Take a seat,” he said when the door clicked softly shut.

Dowell sat down awkwardly, perched on the edge of the chair as if ready to leap up at a moments’ notice. Harry stared, waiting. “Um, right. Sorry, it’s just not an easy thing to…” Was he going to ask to retire? That would be a good outcome. Unlikely though, since it’s what Harry wanted and nothing ever went his way. “It’s about the list. Um, the _homosexual_ one. The list of names.”

Dear lord, even Dowell wasn’t usually this inarticulate. Was this what everyone else felt like to Snape? “Yes, the list of gay wizards that we’re keeping for knowledge and protection, and not for persecution because there is nothing wrong with being gay.” Harry answered, as patiently as he could. If he had to say that one more time, he’d explode.

“Um, yes. The thing is, I mean I wouldn’t usually say anything, but because I- My father was a…” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “ _Death eater_. Because of that, what with Goyle and Malfoy, I thought I should say…”

“Say what?” Harry asked. Dowell’s father had been a death eater? It was news to him, though that wasn’t a surprise since he had HR redact that sort of information from the files before he chose who to hire. Would he have chosen Dowell if he’d known? Probably not. That’s what the redacting process was there for though - to remove his personal biases - Alisdair wasn’t a bad kid. Useless, yes. Bad, no. Harry resisted the urge to scrub his hands over his face. Nothing was simple, was it?

Dowell paused, biting his lip, and then blurted it out. “That my name should be on it. I’m… like that. There are some people who know, no one here. I wouldn’t want them to think...”

Right. Okay. Well, this turned things on their head a bit. Three thefts possibly related to homosexuality in dark wizarding families, just a few months after such a wizard joined Harry’s theft team? It couldn’t be a coincidence. “Do you think you might be the target?” Harry asked. The team should know- Ah. But not if Dowell didn’t wish it so. That was going to be difficult.

Bloody hell. As if he needed something new to worry about.

Dowell shook his head quickly, but his shoulders rose in an uncomfortable shrug. “I can’t think why anyone would target me. I was born just after the last battle, never even met my dad. The people who know I’m-” he seemed to struggle over the word gay, which would have broken Harry’s heart if there was any of it left in him. “ _-like that,_ don’t know about him. And the people who know about dad, don’t know about me.”

Well, it could all be a coincidence yet then. Who’d have it out for the son of a death eater, who wasn’t even born until after the war ended? He’d have to keep a closer eye on the lad, anyway.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, and you can be certain of my confidentiality,” Harry reassured him. “Since no one knows, we’ll work with the assumption that you’ve nothing to worry about for now.” It was almost definitely something to worry about, but Harry would take care of it. Somehow. He’d have to set someone to guard Dowell on the down-low, maybe Ron could suggest someone discreet. “The chances are it’s just a coincidence, so don’t think too hard on it. I’ll keep an eye out, maybe keep you off the field just for this case, and you come straight to me if anything you own goes missing, alright? The other aurors needn’t know anything you’re uncomfortable with. It’s going to be fine.”

Fine for Harry at least, who finally had a reason to get Dowell off fieldwork.

The young man seemed relieved to have it out in the open, and for the responsibility to fall on someone else. He couldn’t help who he was, could he? And to think, he must have been frightening himself to death all last night thinking about it - the bags under his eyes proved as such. He stood, half bowing in an awkward gesture. “Thank you, sir. I… Wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do, but I’m glad I told you. I’ll get back to work, but thank you. I was-”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Harry could guess. S _cared._ Bloody terrified to come out at work. The wizarding world really was trailing far behind.

Harry wanted to say that it was fine, that Dowell could come speak to him about it any time, but they weren’t friends. He didn’t want to be friends with aurors - they went off and did things like dying, which was horribly inconvenient. He nodded instead, and waved the man off.

He was surprised when Dowell spoke again, paused with his hand on the door handle. Would the man never bloody leave? “I’m sorry sir, but we’re all wondering about it… You don’t have to- Uh…” Gods, what had gotten into the auror today? He couldn’t speak a plain sentence to save his life. “Are you…?”

It took Harry a few long seconds to realise what Dowell was asking. Bloody Nora. “Why is everyone asking me that all of a sudden?” Harry growled, throwing a few notes from his desk into the bin. “Is there some secret sign I’m not aware of?”

Dowell winced, but had some backbone at least. “No, nothing like that sir. It’s just that you didn’t remove your name from the list, so we were wondering…” Oh, they were _all_ bloody wondering, were they? Bloody aurors. “That, and you seemed pretty certain about who should or shouldn’t be on it. Like you knew them personally. And all the people you named were close to your own age or older, you didn’t know anything about the younger wizards on the list. We thought that was maybe because they’re not in your, um. Pool?”

He had to give it the man, his reasoning made sense. How would Harry be so sure, except by experience? He’d know for certain who was gay if he’d slept with them. But the ages had nothing to do with him. He hadn’t even recognised any of the names. That was all-

Oh.

_They’re all bastards. Promise you the world, and then they run off with some… some mission to save the world from darkness, and never you mind the years you spent together._

_Regulus Black was gay, you know. Or bisexual, at the least._

_Staying for another, is he? Unprecedented._

Oh God. Snape. His reactions, his expressions last night all made a lot more sense now. Harry felt his cheeks heat. Merlin. He was an idiot. An oblivious idiot. He groaned, putting his head in his hands. Lead auror my arse, he thought. He was a bloody disgrace to the profession.

“Are you alright sir?”

He lifted his head. Shit. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m… not gay. I can see your logic, but I got the information from a friend.”

Dowell nodded. “Ah. And you didn’t know?”

He groaned again, and Dowell wisely left him to it. Oh god. Oh merlin. He touched his hand where Snape had gripped it so many times. Then there was the little tussle in the pub over the sobering potion. Getting chips. Brushing ankles! Not to mention how everyone in that little town was bound to think they were...

Unpack later, he thought forcefully. _Unpack later, unpack later, unpack later_. Preferably never.

He had Malfoy to think about first.

His leg didn’t hurt as much as it had the day before, and he was almost back to his old level of limping when he went off to collect his bike in the afternoon. He’d left aside time to get some safety gear, so he rushed off to do that first. It would be one less thing to piss Snape off next time.

It was a quick in-and-out affair. Harry wasn’t the type to mull around umming and ahhing about a purchase. He picked out two plain black helmets of different makes and a jacket for himself, then donned his gear and shrunk down the spare. He couldn’t wear the jacket over his robes so he packed the robes as well. He’d need some type of bag to hang off the side of his bike and store things, but decided that he probably didn’t have the time to go back in and get one now.

He was glad of the jacket as he rode to the mansion because it was even chillier and more damp than it had been the day before. Even so, by the time he reached his destination he was sweating inside it. Probably time for another anti-inflammatory, he’d have to see if Malfoy would offer him tea.

He only had a minute to wait before Mosser and Zantia apparrated in nearby with a loud pop. Still on his bike, he turned and took off his helmet. “About time,” he called.

Zantia wolf-whistled and Mosser gave him a feral grin. He skipped up to the bike, giving it the once-over while Zantia gave Harry the same.

“That’s a pretty cool look there, sir,” she said, and leaned forward to undo Harry’s jacket zip a hand-width. “But that’s much better.”

He patted his hair down self-consciously, then remembered himself and dismounted. Oof. That first step after a long ride was always going to be a bad one. He rummaged in his pockets for a pain reliever, but Mosser beat him to it, holding one out with a sheepish look. “Summs’ orders, we all have ‘em.”

Harry took it, emptying the bottle, and handed it back. Breathing became much easier, and for a second his vision got sharper. “What’re we waiting for then?”

He’d thought it would be a challenge getting into the building, nevermind getting Draco to talk about the suspected theft, but they were allowed to walk right in. A gnarly looking house elf with a SPEW-embroidered shirt showed them to a sitting room and asked if they needed anything before the young master arrived. Harry felt bad using an elf - even one who was being fairly paid - but he needed a drink to go with his potion, so he asked for tea and biscuits. He’d eaten three gingernuts and dropped the four droplets into his not-too-hot-to-drink tea, when the door opened.

“I hope that’s legal, Potter,” Draco said as he swept into the room like the elegant knobhead he was.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if it was,” Harry replied smoothly, popping the top back in the bottle, and taking a sip of his tea. “You’ll have to excuse me for not standing. Long journey.” He tapped his leg to demonstrate.

Draco held out a hand, which Harry shook but got the distinct impression he’d been expected to kiss instead like in some muggle mafia film. “Yes, we all heard you arrive. To what do I owe this pleasure?” His eyes flicked up to the two aurors standing behind Harry’s chair, showing them where said pleasure stopped.

Harry waved the man into a chair opposite, though it wasn’t his place to say that Draco should sit. He wasn’t into all that fancy culture stuff. What did they call it? Oh yeah - manners. Not really his thing, but he tried. “I’m investigating a spate of impossible robberies, heard you’ve had a bit of bother and I came straight over to see if we could compare notes.”

Draco wrinkled his nose, straightening out his robes as he sat. He looked absolutely flawless, like a painting with all the blemishes edited out. It was inhuman, and Harry felt like a troll in comparison. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how you found out?”

“Nah.”

“Hmm. Brandy?” He picked up a stoppered crystal decanter, probably very good stuff, from the low table beside him. Much better than what Harry was used to. But he already had the tea, and his potion was in it so he was obligated to drink it… Ah, but when did he get the opportunity to drink good brandy like that? On the other hand, he was working. He hesitated too long, and Draco poured a small measure for him and levitated it over. It landed with a soft clink next to his tea. “What do you desire from me, then?”

Harry purposefully ignored the brandy for now, taking a large gulp of tea instead. “Whatever you’ve found out so far. We have leads we’re following but if this case is related then anything you know could be useful. Photographs of the object, history, where it was kept, and suspects if you can think of any. How impossible would you say it was to steal?”

“ _Very_ impossible.” Draco sat back in his chair, one knee resting over the other and the brandy glass hanging delicately from a hand that drooped over the arm of the chair. He didn’t look at all upset or bothered, and had an almost languid air about him. It was totally unlike the clipped arrogance he and his father had displayed years ago, but still screamed _rich._

On the other hand, Harry was sat with his legs spread and his bad one stretched out straight in front of him. He leaned on an elbow on his left knee, a permanent grimace plastered on his face, no delicacy or languor to be found. “Sounds like our thief” he said. “Would you help out an old mate, then?”

Something flashed in the blond man’s eyes, but he covered it up quickly. Anger? Didn’t like being called an old friend. Understandable, considering their history. “I’ll have Lini duplicate the file for you.”

Of course there was a file. Harry finished the bitter dregs of his tea while Draco summoned the house elf and murmured what was presumably orders for a copy of it to be brought. With the tea out of the way, he was finally able to take a sip of the brandy. Hmm, yeah this was very nice stuff. He should come visit Draco more often, the man had taste - and more importantly, the money to support it.

At least they knew this was connected to the other robberies now. If Draco said it was impossible, then Harry didn’t need to see the details to trust him. It solidified their theory around death eater families somewhat, although they were yet to find a link with the museum. Then there was the other part of the theory. He watched the blond through his eyelashes as he continued to whisper with Lini. Long bloody orders just to get one little file.

Draco was… graceful, but not effeminate. Not that Snape was, or Dowell for that matter. His movements were casual but not showy. How was he supposed to know if Draco was gay without outright asking? He was a posh bastard, but other than that he seemed as normal as anyone else. Not that gay people weren’t normal… He was running in circles here.

Well, he supposed there was one way of finding out, if he dared. It would probably lead to a horrible death, or worse - embarrassment.

What the hell. He was an auror, wasn’t he?

When Draco sauntered over with a black-bound file in hand, Harry took it but held it in place between them for one, two… Tilt of the head. “Thanks.” Smile. Too much? Yeah, smile aborted. He figured the man liked them subservient, so he lowered his eyes and tried for a lingering gaze down the body. Ten buttons down the front of his silvery grey shirt, and the trousers surprised him with a zip fly. Muggle trends had infiltrated even the upper echelons of wizarding society.

He flicked the file open and sat back, spreading his legs. That bit wasn’t difficult, seeing as it was his natural sitting position anyway. There was a photo of the item - a necklace, quite pretty. It was a thin silver choker that looked like a snake winding up and down the neck of the woman in the photograph. The shot was too close up to tell who she was, showing only the throat, a collarbone under a lace dress strap and the edge of a pointed jaw. A single strand of white-blonde hair dangled onto her bony shoulder. She was definitely a Malfoy, but not one he recognised.

At the front of the necklace, a snake’s head dangled down onto her chest with two small emerald eyes. The more he looked, the more beautiful it was despite its simplicity. It was the first of the stolen items Harry actually felt deserved the effort.

There were some notes on another page, dimensions of the necklace and its last appraised value - a cracking nine hundred thousand galleons. He resisted the urge to whistle. Bloody hell, this one tiny thing was more valuable than his house and all its contents.

“Was anything else in the safe damaged?” Harry asked, skimming through the tidy notes.

Draco was standing next to him, looking over his shoulder at the photograph. “Hm? No, there was nothing else there. If you want to see the safe, it’s in my bedroom but I’m afraid you’ll have to give me time to move a few things around. I have _some_ secrets I’d rather keep.”

Harry looked up at him, trying to think of something flirtatious to say about secrets but he was awful on the spot, so he left it with a look. “Were there any markings inside? We’ve seen warp marks, kind of like twists or ripples, at the other scenes.” Harry fished in his robe pocket for the photo of the warped paintings and handed it up to Draco, making sure their hands brushed lightly. “See anything like that?”

The blond shook his head. “I didn’t notice anything. Perhaps you should come and take a closer look at another time. I’m afraid that I have a guest arriving soon, but if you could come back tomorrow around eight o’ clock then I would be happy to discuss the case and any... aid I could give.”

Harry supposed there was no point out-staying his welcome, if he was coming back tomorrow anyway. He’d have to be satisfied with the file for now - Draco wasn’t the type of man you could get your way with by pushing him around.

He took another quick look through the papers, to see if there was anything he’d missed to ask. “Do you have any suspects, off the top of your head? People who showed an abnormal interest, grudge against the family, that sort of thing?”

Draco smiled. “Half the wizarding world has a grudge against the Malfoys, but there’s a list on the last page of everyone who knew of the necklace’s existence. Please feel free to read over the file and _then_ come up with questions, based on any missing information.” His tone suggested strongly that there would be no missing information, thank you so very much.

Harry stood, suppressing a groan as he got back onto his feet. He was an old man now, that was it. Old and decrepit, just falling apart. He handed off the file to Mosser, who made it disappear, and then held out his hand for Draco to shake again. “One last thing, I don’t suppose I could meet the woman from the photograph?” He was a bit intrigued by her identity, since he couldn’t think of any Malfoy relatives with the right hair colour and age. The Black branch of the family had hair to match their name, but he didn’t know of any silver-haired branches other than the Malfoys.

Draco’s hand tightened in his for a moment, and he looked like a startled deer. “That- I hardly think…” He tried to pull his hand back, but Harry held on and the blond quickly looked down at the floor. It was a battle between them, Harry’s mind screaming at him to let go while he tried to hold on long enough to win out. Draco gave in first, just barely. “I suppose it could be arranged. Tomorrow. If that’s what you wish.”

Draco’s ears were pink, and the colour spread down to his cheeks as Harry watched, trying not to grin victoriously. Well that was an interesting reaction, maybe Harry’d gotten his subservience theory the wrong way around. He gave the hand a final squeeze before letting go. “Great. Thank you Mister Malfoy, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. If you think of anything else that might help the case, let me know.”

He turned away, picking up his helmet, and led the two aurors back out the way they’d come in. Once they were safely outside the gates at the end of the drive, he let out a breath. “Well that’s one more wizard we can add to the list.” He said, and Zantia and Mosser burst out laughing.

Harry turned to see money changing hands, and scowled at them. “A bet,” Zantia breathed between giggles.

“On what?” Harry asked. He zipped up his jacket to give his hands something to do. It felt like this was going to be something for him to be angry at.

“You,” Mosser replied. “If you’re, you know…”

Oh. He was starting to get _really_ fed up with people asking him about that. “I will say this one more time. I am _not_ gay.”

Zantia let out another burst of laughter, tears building in her eyes. “We know!” She gasped. “Merlin, sir. That was… Oh, oh no ahahah. That was some of the most uncomfortable flirting I have ever witnessed.”

Mosser grimaced, and confirmed her words. “It was bad, sir.”

“I can’t believe it worked!” Zantia continued, tears now rolling down her cheeks as she tried to control her laughter. “And when… When, what was it you said? _I don’t suppose I could meet the woman from the photograph?”_ She mimicked a deeper voice for half the sentence before it broke. “Oh my days, it’s like you were trying to kill me standing there keeping a straight face. I can’t believe he just said yes like that.”

What was so funny about asking about the woman? Harry scowled at the two of them, half for their unprofessional behaviour - although he’d just pretended to be interested in a man to ascertain whether or not he was gay, with no intention of following up, so he was no saint either - and half for their frankly confounding words. After seeing him flirt with another man, they had instantly decided that he couldn’t possibly be gay because he was so bad at it. Then quoted what was possibly the least gay thing he’d said all evening. It was nonsensical.

Zantia’s laughter slowed and she wiped her eyes dry, then looked at him as soberly as she could apparently manage. Then she looked at Mosser, and back at Harry, and they both started laughing again.

 _Dear lord, give me strength,_ Harry thought.

“He doesn’t know,” Mosser said breathlessly, and Zantia shook her head, beyond words.

“Know what?” Harry asked tiredly. He walked to his bike, ready to leave the two idiots to their giggling. It was getting beyond childish now, and they weren’t reading the signals from his expression to stop.

“Show- ahah, show him the photo.” Zantia waved Mosser towards Harry, and the man stepped forwards, pulling the file back out of his robe. He at least was beginning to grasp the seriousness of Harry’s anger, because his face melted into sobriety as he got closer to the bike. He pulled the photo out of the black file and passed it to Harry, who took it with a scowl.

It looked the same as before. “What’s so funny about it?” He asked.

Even Zantia was starting to understand the situation, and she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Don’t you recognise who it is, sir?” She asked.

He looked again, his frown deepening further. All he could tell was that it was a Malfoy. Her hair was at least shoulder length, swept back behind an ear that was just out of frame. Her neck was long and elegant, her skin unmarked white porcelain. The dress strap was of black lace, contrasting her pale skin and hair, and her shoulder and collarbone were sharp, so she must have been a skinny wisp of a thing. She had a strong jaw that led to a pointed chin only just in the shot. Obviously, around her neck was the stolen necklace.

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “She looks like she could be Draco’s sister, but he’s an only child. I can’t think of anyone who looks like this, otherwise. Why? Who is it?”

Mosser swallowed, while Zantia snorted behind him. “Sir, it seems that in addition to - or perhaps rather than - being gay, Draco Malfoy is a…” the auror glanced back to the house, as if he might be overheard from this distance. “A transvestite, sir.”

Harry dropped his eyes back to the photograph. Oh. Yeah, he could see that now. He filled it in mentally, adding the face and wide shoulders that had been cropped out. Long blond hair, pointy chin, skinny little runt. Obviously it was Draco Malfoy. And Harry had _specifically_ asked for the woman’s company. Which had probably been interpreted differently to his intention. That was… fine. It was fine.

Things had gotten way out of his comfort zone far too fast.

He took out his wand, threw the picture into the air, and sliced at it four times before catching it again. Mosser took the newly cropped image and slipped it solemnly back into the file, and Harry burnt the cut-off pieces to ash. Hopefully no one else would recognise the thin neck. “We’re adding no more names to that bloody list. In fact, as soon as we get back I want all copies of it incendio’d. Understood?” They nodded quickly. “What you know, it stays between us. No gossipping or _giggling_ , I don’t want you so much as muttering a joke under your breath. If I hear any rumours about this, if I hear either of you talking about it, if I hear about it from anyone’s mouths including yours, then I will haul your arses up in front of the disciplinary committee and ask them to strip you of your commendations - and you won’t even be able to tell them why you’re there because you will be so fucking terrified of me finding out that you won’t even be able to shit your pants without my say so. Have I made myself clear?”

They nodded again, eyes wide as saucers.

Merlin, what had they put poor Dowell through? Harry could only imagine the jokes and laughter that had been tossed about between these two as they were putting the list together, all the while someone in their midst was suffering each giggle like a stab in the bloody heart. No wonder he’d been stammering so badly by the time Harry got back. He had the courage of a fucking bull, coming out on the back of his colleagues’ behaviour.

Harry climbed onto his bike, too angry to notice his leg hurting, and shot them one last look. “No more. These are real people, as real as we are. No more bets, and no more fucking jokes.”

He showered them with gravel as he took off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draaacoooo. I think I was umming and ahing over who would be the romantic plot interest haha  
> I hope you could see and liked the cover art I randomly decided to stay up until 3am drawing xD alt titles: "Harry Potter and the Sexy Suspect" or "Harry Potter and I Just Noticed Snape's Hand Is Too Big"


	7. Chapter 6

He arrived at the office at a quarter to five, realising that he might as well have gone straight home. Now he’d have to stay late to justify coming back. Despite the long ride, he still felt the need for a rant by the time he stomped past his team, and as such didn’t dare open his mouth even to greet them. The others had obviously been warned that he was on the warpath, because no one tried to speak with him either.

As soon as he thumped down into his chair, he summoned a blank memo paper and scrawled on it: Need a rant, got a minute? He sent the little plane off flying, and then noticed the black file on his desk. That’d make a good distraction in the meantime.

He took out the photo, which now showed only the necklace and part of the neck, and propped it facing him against an old tea mug that he would definitely get around to cleaning one day. The beady little emerald eyes glared at him. Then he began reading.

The snake was a gift from Lucius to Narcissa for their first wedding anniversary, and was charmed to make its wearer irresistible to those around them - and make them more biddable as well. Literally a snake charmer. If you were in a room full of Slitherins, anyway. Narcissa had taken offense at it, asking if her husband meant that she wasn’t charming enough already. Ouch. Rookie husband mistake.

Somehow, Draco had ended up with it. Had he begun dressing up after wearing the necklace, or had it been an addition to an existing collection? Had he been wearing dresses in secret, back at Hogwarts? Harry had a hard time imagining him as a young boy, trying on his mother’s heeled boots and lipstick in front of the mirror. It would probably be rude to ask, unless the topic came up naturally… Which it probably would, considering that Harry had accidentally requested it. Merlin, what if Draco thought it was some… Some kink of his? He didn’t have kinks. He didn’t have anything, he was just Harry. A normal blokey bloke, pint in the pub, run-of-the-mill sausage-roll-for-lunch kind of man. There was nothing different or unusual about him. He was Harry… Just Harry.

He realised that he was staring at the photo, and shook himself. The charm couldn’t work through a photograph, could it? He turned back to the paper he’d been reading, holding it up purposefully to block his view of Draco’s throat.

The necklace had been kept in a sealed safe in a secret hole in the wall, behind a painting above Draco’s bed. He’d worn it for an hour while drinking alone in his room, put it away in the safe and gone straight to sleep without getting off the bed, and the next morning it was gone. There was no information on how long he’d been storing it there for, or who knew of its exact location.

The list of suspects was annotated in a hand less tidy than the rest of the pages. Notes and questions scribbled in the margins told the times and circumstances of each person’s acquaintance with the item, as well as what Harry assumed were quotes from the victims of its charm. Apparently a man called Crawley Sittleworth, who had walked in on Draco removing the necklace while looking for the bathroom at a charity event, had called it “the most beautiful thing I ever saw”. Riveting. The list held only seventeen names, two of which Harry recognised as thieves who’d wriggled out of charges he’d put against them in the last year. Those two were at the top, showing that Draco had done his homework.

At the bottom of the list, Harry supposed he shouldn’t have been shocked to see the name Severus Snape. Despite his protest that the Malfoys existed too far above him socially, he’d seemed pretty close to them during the war - and they’d all been death eaters. He couldn’t blame the man for lying to protect his friends, but it still annoyed him somehow.

The notes were thorough and fully annotated, quite as good as any report Harry’s team put together. In all the confused mess that made up this case, one thing was clear; Draco was absolutely devastated by the loss, more so than even the chairman Mr Portisfoot was over his precious pot. He would likely do anything to get his necklace back, including working with aurors.

“Harry!”

Hermione burst through the door, grinning from ear to ear, and rushed to give him a hug. “Oh my God, you have no idea how happy I was to get your note. It’s been so long! Do you mind?” The last was aimed at the two bodyguards standing in the doorway, who grimaced and glanced at one another. “It’s Harry Potter. What’s he going to do, depress me to death? Go on... I’m sorry Harry.”

He gave her his best smile as she pulled out of the hug, and she quickly perched herself on the chair opposite him. The desk seemed a mile long between them, the perfect distance. “I thought you might be busy,” he said after the two guards had stepped outside and shut the door.

She grinned again, having gained no poise or refinement over the years. Something he was always glad for. “Even the Minister for Magic has time for her friends, Harry. You said you wanted a rant? It’s been years, I’d almost forgotten how we used to meet up and have a good old moan. When was the last time?”

“I can’t remember,” Harry lied. It had been during his hospital stay, the day before Bobbi was killed. “I guess I haven’t felt like having a rant in a while.”

‘Mione nodded, adjusting her smart brown jacket at the same time. “Well I’m glad you do now. We’ve all been so worried about you, just going through the motions everyday. Sometimes I just want to-” She made a motion with her hands that might have signified strangling him or shaking his shoulders, then she glanced up at him. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. What’s on your mind?”

Harry sighed, putting his elbows on the desk. “I don’t know where to start. I’m working on this case, and it’s looking more and more like the thefts might be targeted at gay men, or at least trying to convey some sort of message to do with that.”

“I’ve heard a few tidbits about it, rumours.” Mione said, nodding.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. Was there a look there? Like she thought she’d said something significant. It was probably the same thing everyone else had been thinking recently... “I’m not gay, let me just lay that one to rest now.” He said warily.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Harry.” Mione told him gently, and he sighed in relief that she at least had the sense to know that much, even though she was still utterly wrong about him.

“Exactly!” he said, and scratched his hands over his head. His hair was knotted again, he’d have to brush it before going to the mansion tomorrow. “That’s all I’ve been trying to say, every time, but whenever I stand up to defend that stance it just builds assumptions. And in just the last twenty four hours, I’ve realised that no less than three acquaintences of mine are gay. Three! But none of them are out, not even a bit. Isn’t that weird? People keep saying they’re sort of fine with it, but I can’t think of a single out gay wizard.”

“It is strange,” Hermione agreed slowly. “The wizarding world never got hit by HIV, didn’t get the villainisation or stigma attached to the virus that was prevalent in muggle culture for decades, but there’s still such a backwards attitude. We are a relatively small community, and in the past I suppose there must have been more pressure to breed and keep numbers up. Especially in pureblood families. Things are slow to change”

He huffed. “Well I wish they weren’t. What am I supposed to do? Now that I know and can see it, how am I supposed to carry on? People I care about are living miserably, hiding and feeling ashamed of what they are. And then they go to work, or to the pub or wherever, and they have to laugh along with the jokes and the rumours because if they don’t, the next ones will be about them.” He thought of Dowell, just outside that door working alongside colleagues in whom he should have full trust. Instead, he had to keep secrets and would forever be frightened that the other aurors might find out his secret.

Surprisingly, Mione laughed. “I’d forgotten about your hero complex.”

“I haven’t got-“ he cut himself off. Bloody women, it was like they could see into your head sometimes.

Hero complex. He’d been feeling almost human the last couple of days, and that was the reason, wasn’t it? Not because he had a case, or because he was eating meals. His circumstances hadn’t changed. He just had someone to bloody save again, other than himself.

Except he couldn’t do it. There was nothing he could do, no spell he could cast or evil wizard to kill. The problem was inside everyday people. What could he do about that?

“You’re the minister for magic,” he said, slightly more accusingly than he meant to. “Why don’t you do something?”

Hermione sat back, sighing. “I tried. Two years ago, I attempted to pass an anti discrimination law similar to the muggle one. It would protect lgbt+ individuals, as well as wizards and witches from minority groups, people with disabilities and muggleborns from being denied access to services based on those characteristics.”

“That happened?” Harry asked. No one had mentioned anything like that to him.

Hermione gave him an incredulous look, then muttered “Right, cis het white wizard. Anyway, the proposal was blocked by a whopping seventy two percent of the wizengamot. It was a shock. You see, no one had seemed opposed to it when I sent out my feelers. Everyone supposedly sat on the fence or quietly supported the bill, and then on the day they largely voted against it.” She threw her hands up in exasperation.

“I don’t get it,” Harry groaned. “I had a similar experience with my aurors. When I first brought the topic up, they looked a bit trepidous but no one complained or implied anything homophobic. Then as soon as they met a gay man, it was all laughter and jokes, professionalism out the window and they could barely breathe for how hilarious they thought it was that this well-stationed man was a pervert. I… I’m so bloody angry, I don’t even want to see their faces right now.”

Hermione made a sound of agreement, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair thoughtfully. “The problem as I see it is twofold,” she began:

“First, there isn’t an example of an out and happy gay man for others to follow. No one wants to be the first, because whoever it is will suffer the worst. They’ll lose friends, and might even lose their job and any other status they have. Secondly, the rest of the community don’t have anyone to fight against. People can keep their phobic views because they never have to speak them aloud, and that means they never get challenged.” She bit her lip, frowning. “Yes, that’s it. It’s easy to make change when people are being loud about something - you just shout back, argue a different point of view. But you can’t argue with someone who isn't saying anything in the first place. It’s all internalised.”

“You’re saying we - they need a figurehead?” Harry asked. Who would be willing to do that? Definitely not Dowell. Snape might, given the right encouragement, but would they want him as one? Hey everyone look an ex death eater you all hate has come out as gay, let’s all celebrate how okay it is now! He’d probably do more damage than good. Then there was Malfoy, who might be just close enough to this side of darkness. But he also had the most to lose, and a lot of pride. “I don’t think any of my three would do it.”

She looked at him and smiled.

“No.” He said firmly, putting his hands up to exaggerate. “I am not gay, alright?” How many times would he have to say it before people would believe him?

“But you’re not a practicing straight man either, are you?” She countered. Oof, hit it where it hurts. “I mean, you haven’t even had a casual girlfriend since the divorce and that was years ago.”

“I’ve already pretended once, and I don’t know how I’m gunna get out of it without hurting anyone,” Harry said, thinking of Draco. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was only after the fact that he’d realised how disrespectful and generally awful it was. “It would do more damage than good for me to stand up as a public figure and then turn around further down the line like oh hey actually my bad haha, I’m gunna go marry this woman now…” Not that he planned on ever marrying again. The very thought of it disgusted him - but he didn’t want to lose the freedom either. Besides, being out as gay would stop him from ever having the chance of finding another girlfriend. Women would never even think of trying it on with him.

Well. That would be fine with him actually, but the tradeoff would be an onslaught of journalists following him everywhere, people looking and saying things all the time… All of which was already true. It didn’t matter though, because he wasn’t bloody gay.

“You could always do a press conference.”

He groaned.

“I know you don’t like them, because they never ask anything related to the case, but this time you wouldn’t want them to,” Hermione continued. She had that glint in her eye and energy in her hands as she spoke, and he knew she’d latched onto the idea already. He’d never be able to shake it out of her. “You could use the case as an excuse to talk about the issue, without saying anything about yourself.”

“But people will still think it,” he told her. Even she - one of his oldest friends - had needed to confirm with him after hearing a rumour based on the few things he’d said on the topic already, to a limited number of people in his own office. With it out in the papers, there wouldn’t be a witch or wizard left in Britain who didn’t think he was gay.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, because it’s so horribly unusual for people to be spreading lies and gossip about you. How ever will you cope?” Point. “Oh, while we’re on the topic, did you see the papers this morning?”

He shook his head. “Can’t remember the last time I bought one.” Another lie. He and Ginevra had a subscription, and he’d stopped it two days after the divorce because of a particularly scathing and sensational front page about his failed marriage and some outright untruths about the cause.

Hermione broke into a smile. “You might actually like this one, hang on…” She dug into her handbag, arm sinking deeper and deeper as she rummaged around. It was still disturbing, seeing someone’s entire arm disappear into a bag that was only deep enough to fit a hand. “I think I put a copy in here at lunch, I’m totally sure I did… Now, where - ah, here we go.”

She handed him a rumpled copy of The Daily Prophet, and he flattened it out on his desk.

Potter continues reckless spiral with deathtrap motorcycle stunt.

Underneath that headline - probably the most accurate they’d ever printed about him - was a brief interview with the engineer Harry’d bought the bike from, describing his close run-in with the wall and making some very specific assumptions about his mental state at the time. He wouldn’t be taking the bike back there for servicing, then. He’d have to ask Hagrid where he got his done, though he guessed the giant did most of the handiwork himself.

Despite the headline and article, he couldn’t help but grin. A quarter of the page was filled by a close-up snapshot of him taking his helmet off, on a loop. In the photograph he turned his head to look left and shook his helmet hair loose, untidy curls bouncing in needless slow motion. It was glorious and cheesy, probably the best photograph ever taken of him, and the first he’d liked the look of in years. He was suddenly glad that he’d showered and shaved before it was taken. “Can I keep this?” he asked ‘Mione, and she rolled her eyes with a smile. He’d have to frame it and put it somewhere.

“So you’ll do the press conference?” she asked.

Fine. It was an acceptable bribe. “Yeah, okay,” he sighed. “It’s a big case now, so I should have done one today anyway. I’ll get Tina to put something together for after lunch tomorrow.”

It was going to be a draining Friday, made worse by the fact that he’d probably be working through the weekend.

He glanced at the wall clock. Just gone half past six now. He wanted to ask Snape about the necklace, but it would take him forty five minutes to get to Biddersea and he’d said he would give warning next time. He didn’t even know if Snape would still be at the pub anyway.

It was a shame Snape couldn’t have seen the photograph in the paper. He probably had a spell for reading, so he’d get to hear all about how daring and reckless Harry was, without seeing that he’d bought a helmet. Or how cool he looked, either.

If he sent an owl, the likelihood was that Snape wouldn’t get it until he left the muggle-infested pub to go home, at which point a question like “Will you still be in the pub in 45 minutes?” would be redundant. But if Harry just showed up, it might be that Snape wasn’t even there, despite what Dai had said about his regularity. And even if he was there, what if he got really angry at Harry for turning up unannounced?

“Harry?”

He started. “Sorry, ‘Mione. Bit distracted, I think I need a” - drink - “rest. Shall we call it quits? I promise I’ll keep you updated.”

“No need,” she said, standing up and straightening her skirt. “I have my own ways of finding things out.”

Spies. Spies and treachery.

Only Tina was left in the office when he passed through fifteen minutes later, so he passed on instructions for her to set up the conference for 2pm tomorrow, and walked to his bike. His leg was getting better and better, he’d be walking without the cane by tomorrow afternoon if he was careful. Well, he supposed that didn’t sound at all like him. Careful? Hah.

Despite all the reasons not to, he asked the satnav to guide him to The Globe, Biddersea. Another long ride when he should be going to bed for a rest - he really was an idiot at times.

“Already paid for,” Dai said as soon as he walked up to the bar, putting a pint of reddish beer on a rubber mat for him. “You won’t get away without it this time, I’ve been given special orders.” He placed a hand on one of the wooden pumps, the one belonging to “Local, 6.5%”.

Harry frowned. Wasn’t it 4.5% last time? He thanked the man, and introduced himself as Harry since he’d probably be around more often in the future. It was a good pub, after all, and as weird as it was to think… Snape’s company was kind of calming. It was okay, which was saying a lot when most people were a chore to be around.

Snape sat at his usual pew, in a charcoal grey button-up shirt and washed-out black jeans. His posture was perfect, as always. How drunk would he have to be to slouch, just a little? Harry hoped to find out one day. “Thanks for the beer,” he said, holding it up. “Sorry I couldn’t give you any notice, I just came straight from working late, or I’d have owled you.”

The man hummed disapprovingly by way of a greeting, but didn’t seem particularly angry so Harry sat opposite him. The beer was good, sending that ripple of calm over his skin. He breathed, and it felt like the first real breath he’d taken in days. He went straight to the question that had been on his mind the entire ride over. “Did you know about Draco?”

“I know many things about Mister Malfoy, you will have to be more specific. Have you eaten?” Snape reached behind him, feeling along the top of the pew until his hand found a menu card on a shelf behind, which he passed to Harry.

“No, and I can’t say what I mean, because if I did and you didn’t already know then it would be breaking his trust.” Harry explained. The menu was pretty standard pub fare. Variations on gammon and chips.

“And so we find ourselves at an impasse.” Snape said, coolly taking a sip of whiskey.

Ugh. Harry took back what he’d thought about Snape’s company being calming. “Okay, well I guess it doesn’t matter. I was wondering what you could tell me about a necklace that was stolen from the mansion last week. A snake choker with emerald eyes. Do you remember it? Draco seems to think you took a liking to it.”

“A liking?” Snape scoffed. “I bloody hated the thing. It was like being under imperio, except that you felt in control the entire time. That necklace makes you believe whole-heartedly that the only thing you genuinely, truly want at that moment is the approval and affection of its wearer. If it’s gone, then good riddance. The boy never had the sense to destroy it.”

Okay, well that hadn’t been what Harry was expecting. “He didn’t make you… Do anything, did he?”

Snape scowled at him, cheeks reddening. “Not what you’re thinking. He is not that particular type of imbecile, I assure you. He has… unusual tastes, and craves adoration - I’m sure you can empathise with that.” Snape paused, as if uncertain he should say more. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t believe that he can get it by non-magical means.”

Hah. Draco had seemed more than confident enough in his ability to get what he wanted this afternoon. “So you do know,” Harry said. “About the, uh, way he dresses.”

Snape nodded. “Not many people do, and for his safety and yours I suggest you do everything in your power to keep it that way. Now, would you go and order some chips? I’m famished.”

Harry did as he was told, and returned to sit in silence until the food arrived. He drank his beer, sat and existed in contentment the likes of which he couldn’t remember. It didn’t seem like Snape felt the need to talk either, which took the heavy, invisible expectations off his shoulders. The charmed beverage helped too, as each wave of okay-ness that washed over him sank deeper and deeper into the layers of misery. He found that he could think clearly, without… worrying about it.

There should have been another theft by now, and they hadn’t yet found reliable connections between the existing ones. He was certain about their working theory, but in truth it was full of holes.

What was he going to say in the press conference tomorrow? We sort of have some links, but it could all still be a coincidence and I can’t tell you about it in detail because I don’t want to out anyone. Yeah, lovely. Bloody great. He’d make it up on the spot, and it would be terrible and the papers would just make up whatever they wanted to say anyway so what was the point. Oh, and there was the evening with Draco afterwards. He was half hoping that another theft would happen and he’d have to give it a miss… The chances were slim, knowing his luck.

He’d just have to be respectful, treat the guy like any other host. But would he want to be greeted like a lady, with a bow and a kiss on the hand, a compliment about his hair or dress? Or would he want to be treated like a lord, handshake and a formal greeting? Probably the former. Eight o’ clock would be dinner time. A meal, small talk - and then the safe, which happened to be in Draco’s bedroom of all places. That was a disaster waiting to happen. He’d have to be firm and clear minded. No drinking. Not even a drop. Not that he thought anything would happen, even with alcohol. He’d been drunk plenty of times and never felt the inclination to so much as look at another person in that way.

He finished his drink just as the chips came, and Dai took his glass away with a wink - whatever that meant. Harry pushed the plastic basket over until it touched Snape’s hand. “Do you mind if I ask you something? I’ve had so many revelations over the last couple of days that I can’t keep up with them all, and I’m fed up with assumptions.”

“Yes.” Snape answered.

“Yes you mind? Or yes to my question?” Harry asked, munching on a chip.

Snape took one, somehow finding the best, longest chip in the basket even though he was blind. “Yes, I am gay. Yes, I was in a relationship with Regulus Black until he betrayed Voldemort and died.”

“I thought you loved my mother,” Harry waved a chip at the man, then smiled up at Dai as he brought another pint. He waited until the other man was gone again before quoting the pensieve memory: “Always.”

“You can love someone without being sexually attracted to them,” Snape pointed out. Harry supposed he had a point. He’d loved Ginevra, but had much preferred a hug and a nap together than anything more intimate. She’d seemed to think that sex was a much bigger deal, however. “Could you find the ketchup?”

How in the world had it become normal for them to eat chips together like this, so natural for Severus Snape to be asking Harry Potter to pass him the tomato sauce?

Harry looked around, found a half empty bottle on the shelf behind Snape’s head and stood to grab it. Leaning over, he noticed that his old teacher smelled like bitter potion ingredients and… something else. Kind of like the air smells, really high up in the clouds. He wasn’t going to be creepy and have a proper sniff, but it lingered in his mind as he thumped back onto the bench. “Want me to squeeze it on wherever?”

“Is there a bowl for it?” Snape asked. Harry looked around again, couldn’t find anything and said as much. “Alright, but I apologise in advance for the mess.”

He was about to say that he couldn’t imagine Snape making a mess, but then he remembered the last time they got chips. To be fair, it had been a metal table so the wizard hadn’t been able to ‘see’.

Although he’d been eating a bit more recently, Harry didn’t have much of an appetite so he sat back and watched Snape eat, occasionally taking a chip away and then putting it back a minute later so that his company wouldn’t suspect anything. The man ate carefully, didn’t get anything on his face but he couldn't help but get tomato sauce over his fingers.

He finished his second pint, then remembered that he was supposed to be driving home. “Don’t suppose you have another sobering potion?” He asked.

“As a matter of fact, I have two,” Snape replied, holding up two fingers.

“I’ll give you a lift home then,” Harry said, feeling quite content. “I got you a helmet and everything.”

Was this how normal people felt every day? It was like the dark clouds had cleared and he could breathe clean, dry air without suffocating in the thickness of it. He sighed, straightening his legs out under the table and closing his eyes.

He knew it was only the calming effect of the charmed beer, but it was also simply nice to sit with someone who didn’t expect anything of him - not even conversation. “Merlin, I’m tired,” he said after a while.

“Hmm,” Snape replied. Harry cracked open an eye to see the man leaning back in a similar position, and he smirked to himself.

“Can I ask you another question?” He asked.

Snape raised his eyebrows without moving otherwise. His thick hair was raised at the back against the wooden back of the pew, giving him a parrot-esque look. “I doubt I could stop you.”

Harry kicked him, not too hard, then left his leg leaning against Snape’s. “When did you realise you were gay?”

Snape made a face, screwing up his nose in a really unattractive way. “I suppose I knew for a long time, but I was a halfblood from a Catholic family so I refused to admit it to myself until Regulus forced his way into my narrow life… Even then, I believed it to be wrong. A sin I couldn’t help but indulge in.” Harry moved his leg against Snape’s in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, and the man hooked a foot behind Harry’s calf before continuing. “It wasn’t until he was dead that I realised how much guilt and shame I had been placing on us both, and it took many years to work through it to acceptance.”

As he spoke, his foot swiped slowly up the back of Harry’s calf, and down again.

“Have you uh, gone out with anyone since Regulus? You seemed pretty sure about some of the men on our list.” Harry asked. He upended his empty glass, waiting for the last dregs of foam to fall into his mouth, to cover the strange feeling in his stomach. Like there was a heavy stone falling slowly, pushing pressure downwards. The beer washed a pleasant wave over him, calming his sudden nerves. Damn, he needed this stuff on tap in his office. He could hardly bear to shake hands usually, but under its influence he’d been touching another human being - through two layers of denim, sure - for almost a minute.

Another sweep of his calf. Was it - weird? It was weird, wasn’t it? “I hardly think you want to know the details of my personal life.”

Yes, it was weird. Their legs were entwined under the table, and he wasn’t feeling the least bit repulsed by being in physical contact with another human being. He hated being touched. Hated it.

Harry frowned, carefully placed the empty glass on the table in front of him and gave it a long look. “What exactly is the nature of the charm on this beer?”

And then, without any warning whatsoever, that stone in the pit of his stomach jumped and he was violently sick. Bitter liquid splattered over the surface of the table. Once. Twice. He retched a third time, then coughed. His skin crawled like it was made of worms, and he crossed his arms, gripping his arms chest. “Oh god,” he mumbled. He should banish the sick spreading slowly over the table, but his couldn’t move his hands. They were shaking.

Snape did it, though he banished the glass and a coaster as well, and his face was a mask of disgust.

“I should go.” Harry said hoarsely.

“I wouldn’t advise-“

He didn't hear the rest, as he was out of the chair and gone. Dai called out as he walked past, but he kept going without slowing or speaking. He had to get outside, where he could breathe.

He’d parked his bike on the pavement outside, and although there was a part of him that knew it was inadvisable, he just needed to escape. He got on, switched on the headlamp and drove. When he was just out of town, on a road surrounded by tall hedges, he pressed the button for invisibility and then pulled up.

Air rushed to meet him, drying the moisture in his eyes, and he kept going up until the bike started to resist, grumbling.

He breathed in short, sharp staccatos, and his mind was stuck the same way. Bursts of unwelcome thought pierced him with an almost physical force. He wanted to curl up, but he couldn’t do that on a bike. He hunched instead.

It just feels shit.

“Shut up,” he growled, lashing out with his hand to the left.

If you didn’t want me then why did you ask me out? It’s been weeks, Harry.

“Shut up!” He struck out again, this time with a curse from his wand that parted the misty clouds to his right. The bike swerved. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

If you loved me…

He put his hands over his ears, shrieking into the wind. “Shut up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaace, ace ace aaaace. This is largely based on my own experiences trying to be a human who is ok with other humans, after coming out of a sexual relationship as an asexual person who didn't know you're allowed to be asexual. xD It was super annoying learning to be ok with other humans again.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter are homophobia, past abuse, past rape, uh current sexual assault, anxiety attack idk it all starts kicking off from here on tbh.  
> I think I stopped writing this story for about a year, and then came back to it in a really dark mood and was like YOU can be pants, and YOU can be pants, and YOU can be pants.

“I will now take questions from the floor. Yes, you in the grey hat.”

The room was packed, bums in each foldaway chair while even more journalists, aurors and interested parties stood around the edges of the room. They called, waving arms and quills in the air to get Harry’s attention, until the woman he’d picked started speaking. He could barely hear her over the sounds of their continued whispering and the scraping of their quills.“If the thefts are targeted at people of a certain demographic, then is there anything the rest of us have to worry about? Surely the safest precaution is to not indulge in those acts?”

Bloody selfish bastards.

“As I have already explained, it’s not about the item’s current owner, but perhaps past owners, gift-givers or creators, or even the nature of the items themselves. I’m sure we all have things in our homes with such histories. Not to mention that it affects us all when a piece of our heritage is stolen from us, such as from the museum.” He tried to keep his voice flat and reasonable. He could see Ron standing at the back of the room, probably spying on him for his wife. Spies and treachery, indeed. It made their weekly beers and Ron’s occasionally turning up at crime scenes more sinister. Regardless, Ron was still a friend and seeing his face in the crowd helped to ground Harry. “In the green coat and bowler hat there.”

“Given your statement just now, would you recommend that people should purge any items related to homosexual individuals from their homes, to protect themselves?”

What the actual fuck. “Uh, no.” He struggled to keep his voice professional. “There is little to no threat to the everyday person. The thief has only targeted items that were almost impossible to steal. Unless you have an incredibly advanced security system in your home, then I doubt there is anything to worry about. The best thing any of us can do to protect the community, is to protect those among us who identify as gay. They are potential targets, and they are the people who need protection, not the rest of us. Another question. Here in the front.”

“Is there a way of knowing who is gay, and who isn’t?”

Harry couldn’t help but sigh. “Yes, there is. By being a good, compassionate and open friend to those around you, you can demonstrate that you’re an ally who is worthy of their trust. That’s how you find out if someone is gay, because they feel safe enough to tell you.” The man looked annoyed at the answer as he scribbled it down. What were they all expecting him to say? Yes sir, here are ten sure signs that your friend slash victim-to-be is gay, and here’s what you can do about it!

It continued in the same vein, and Harry could feel his blood pressure rising over the next half an hour until he felt he might explode - and who knew what he’d end up saying on an impulse then? He’d made that mistake before, and paid for it dearly. They were just trying to rankle him for another bout of sensationalist articles. Well, stuff ‘em. He ended the conference early, ignoring the outraged protests. He had an actual job to do, after all.

Forty five minutes later, he was met outside his office by the very harried-looking auror Jameson, a tall lanky fellow who’d been relegated to Postal Security after breaking down in the field and almost killing his partner. People generally gave him a wide berth, but Harry could empathise with the man a little bit. He worked with people he wanted to murder every day, after all.

The man stopped him from going into his office with a hand on his chest. “Ah, auror Potter. Good to ah, to see you. Ah, um. Let’s - I’m sorry, you got such an influx of post and I haven’t, um checked for ah, you know, hexes. I’ll get to it, but the place is a little…”Harry pushed past the stuttering man and opened the door. His desk was covered in letters and small parcels. Already? “Why didn’t you have it redirected to the vaults?” God, some of those could be bloody bombs with the target he’d just painted on his back. He closed the door again, a pathetic barrier between himself and a few hundred potential threats. Did Jameson want him dead now?“Ah, uh. I wanted to, um. I had to talk to you. About… about something. Private, ah. Shall we…?” He gestured to the door, and this time when Harry opened it the post was all gone. Just like magic - hah. It was easy to forget that Jameson had been a pretty powerful wizard before his breakdown. That he still was a powerful wizard. He wondered if people forgot that about him, too.

Harry went straight for his desk chair, checking before sitting that the man hadn’t missed anything. Not a scrap of parchment was left, and nothing on his desk had disappeared or moved either. Insane precision and speed on that. What a scary man... Jameson fiddled with his hands as Harry settled in, finding a pain reliever to drink and settle his leftover anger. Merlin’s balls, it felt good to be sitting down again. “Okay, what did you want to talk about? Do you have some information about the case, or..?”

The tall man shook his head, hair flopping over his eyes. He pushed the fringe back with shaking fingers and a watery smile. “Ah, you see… um, I... Oh, darn it I had th-thought it might be, ah. Easier to say. To you.” He paused to clench and unclench his fingers a few times, frowning at the floor. He didn’t look up as he spoke again. “I, ah. Thank you. That’s all, really… For - for the things you uh, said. This afternoon. I don’t know that I could have ah, um answered the way you did, hmm.” He looked up, his eyes firm - the first sign of spirit Harry had ever seen in the man in the years of their acquaintance. “Thank you.”

Well now. Maybe there really was an easy way to tell who in the wizarding community was gay. Just look for the people who act the most harried and stressed, and you have it. He suppressed a sigh. “I’m sorry I can’t do more, Jameson. Let me know if you have any problems, alright?” Not that there was anything much he could do anyway. He scrubbed hands over his face, feeling more weary than ever. Everything was getting more… important. People were going to be depending on him, for the first time in years. He really wished they wouldn’t. “Do you know anyone else in the ministry? I’m trying to keep track of potential targets, and I’ll keep the information to myself otherwise.”

Jameson winced. “A few, we used to meet once a month but then-” he looked over his shoulder, double checking that the door was shut, and took a few hesitant steps closer to the desk. “Allan Almera, do you know him?”

Harry nodded, and gestured for Jameson to take the seat opposite him. Almera was a secretary, not someone Harry was overly familiar with but he had a vague recollection of fluffy brown hair and golden eyes that reminded him of Remus Lupin.“His wife found out about him and uh, another man. Well. Not that I’m saying he should’ve been, you know, ah... But it was difficult for him to be faithful to her.” Jameson frowned at his hands, which he seemed unable to keep still. Now that he was talking though, he wasn’t going to stop. “Arranged marriage, see. Um. He’s trying to stop ah, being what he is.” What was it with wizards not being able to say the word gay? “Therapy, they’re calling it. We tried ah, talking to him, told him - I said, you can’t change the way you are, you can’t change this. He still wants to try.” He threw his hands up to show what he thought of that idea. “That place shouldn’t be legal. They’re calling it therapy, but we all know…”

Did he expect Harry to do something about it? Talk to Almera? Merlin, he hoped not. “What about the rest of you, don’t you meet together still?”

“Ah, no um. I go for drinks with um, he’s an unspeakable I shouldn’t tell you his name. We’re sort of, you know. Sometimes, when he’s off duty.” He gave a little chuckle here, covering his mouth with a hand as if he shouldn’t be allowed to laugh. “Which is never. Um, the others… We were kind of spooked I suppose, um. Craydon Widdleworth, he works half an’ half London and Cardiff, I don’t know any of the others from the ah, Welsh branch but apparently th-there’s a big group built up somehow, ah. Uh. Nataani Shal, he’s in fraud. The two Davids - Simone and Pratchell. One’s in transport, really um boring department actually, he goes on and on about regulations ahah… And the other’s-”

“Sports, right? I think I know the one,” Harry answered, partly because he did know the man - an arrogant, handsome wizard with thick black hair but weirdly small hands - but mostly to stop Jameson from talking any more. All this would lead to nothing but him feeling even more shit than before for not having noticed anything going on. “Is it just gay men, or do you have representation from other parts of the LGBT community?” That’s what the muggles called it, right? Lesbian, Gay… Something else, and that other one as well.  
Jameson looked uncomfortable, shifting in the chair. “W-well, we wouldn’t really know where to look for others, it’s kind of easier to find other people like yourself. Um, mostly by accident, if I’m honest. Ah. But we did have one woman, few years back. She ah, she died though. Sorry.”

“No no, you’ve been plenty helpful really. I should get back to work and leave you to do the post sorting.” Harry stood to escort the man out, surprised momentarily at how much taller Jameson was when he wasn’t hunched in a chair. A good head taller than Harry, though he’d known that already. It just managed to surprise him every now and then because Jameson didn’t have the demeanor of a big man. “Don’t get yourself blown up, alright?”

Jameson held out a hand to shake, which Harry took without grimacing even though the man held on with a crablike grip that threatened to break his fingers. “If we start back up, I’ll let you know,” he whispered, stepping backwards out the door.

  
Harry opened his mouth to say that he wasn’t gay, but they were within earshot of his team now and he didn’t think bringing it up again would do much to convince anyone any more. Well, he’d just have to hope he died before they started meeting up again.

He barked the team together for a briefing, which was really just a way for him to let off some steam by making other people feel shit for a change, then sat in his office mulling over everything he’d learnt in the last few days.

He didn’t feel any closer to catching the thief yet, and there hadn’t been another incident since the pot, which worried him. The first three thefts had all occurred within a few days of each other, and now it had been almost three days with nothing. That either meant that something had happened they were yet to discover, the thief had stopped, or there was a pattern they were as yet unaware of. Maybe the thief worked Wednesday to Friday and had no time for escapades, or they had custody of a child during that time. Perhaps they had been hospitalised in an accident, and there would be no more burglaries for several weeks - long enough for the papers to chew Harry out for another unsolved mystery. Especially since this one had gotten so high-profile so quickly.

It was six o’ clock before he knew it, and he gathered his outer robe before heading out. The aurors wished him luck as he passed, and he gave them such a look that they didn’t dare so much as snigger at his dinner date. They were all as anxious as he was for new information, and he only hoped that he could get something useful out of Draco to make up for the terrible evening he felt coming on.

The feeling was proven true when he got to the basement-come-garage where he had left his bike, only to find a mess of rippled concrete where he had left it.

He stared at the ground for a full minute, dumbfounded. His bike. The shit had stolen his bike.

They’d been waiting for the fucker to strike again, but he’d not imagined that he might be the next target. Gods, and he was going to have to walk everywhere now. “I only just bloody bought it!” he shouted, to see if it would make him feel any better. His words bounced off the walls, but otherwise there was no reply.

The garage was empty of people, and only two cars occupied the dark room with him so there wasn’t any need to clear the scene of the crime or gather witness reports. Therefore, he opted for shouting profanities until his throat couldn’t take any more and he stopped, coughing. Bloody fucking thieves, he’d only had the thing two fucking days. Two. Days. God damn it!

He sent a patronus off to Zantia, but barely waited for the stag to leap away with his message before following it back through the doorway and into the building. He’d have to take the floo to Malfoy’s. Great. He threw back a pain reliever as a precaution and walked to the main atrium that contained the largest fireplaces. He wasn’t in the mood to crouch, even for a bit of privacy, and carried on grumbling to himself all the way about his beautiful, stolen bike.

The atrium was busy and loud, with hundreds of witches and wizards heading home, chatting away in the floo queues. Harry hobbled to the one at the far end by the wall, so he would at least not be surrounded by gossipping idiots on all sides. The queues moved fairly quickly, so it was less than five minutes before he had a handful of floo powder in his hand. “Malfoy Manor,” he said clearly. He couldn’t hack even one more thing going wrong today, really.

He was spat out onto a woven red rug - literally, as his leg was unable to support him after escaping the tunnel of horror. Bloody floo. He grunted, glad that he’d already taken a pain potion, and pushed himself up to his knees. He stayed kneeling to catch his breath, brushed ash and old embers from his robes.

“I wasn’t expecting you by floo, or I’d have had Lini clean it out this afternoon,” a voice said calmly behind him. “You’re lucky it wasn’t locked, actually.”

He didn’t bother turning around, still brushing his robes and working himself up mentally to attempt to stand. “They stole my bike,” he replied sourly. “I fucking hate the floo.” He was just giving up on the dusty robe when a pale hand appeared in front of him.

As much as he wanted to think that he could get up on his own, thank you very much, he knew it would be embarrassing to try. He supposed he could at least try to be gracious about it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Draco said. He barely managed to pull Harry up - not the strongest man on the planet, this one. Made a nice change from Snape’s surprising sturdiness, anyway.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, and then forgot what he was going to say. Draco was - well, he was clearly a man in a dress. Not a big ball gown or anything, an elegant and slim deep green number designed to hug hips he didn’t have. Still, he looked absolutely fucking stunning. What the actual fuck. Harry snapped his jaw shut so that he wouldn’t look like a total gaping idiot, but Draco was already smirking. Was that-? He had to be wearing lipstick, his lips hadn’t been that pink before. And the rest. Eyeshadow, long lashes that had to be fake.What had they been talking about? Right, his bike. “I’ve left my team to investigate the bike. Am I early? I spent a lot of time shouting, but probably not two full hours. I don’t think they’ll find any special evidence we haven’t found elsewhere, but it does narrow down our suspects considerably. You look, um, nice. By the way.” Merlin Harry, stop talking now.

“Dinner will be ready in a half hour, would you care for a brandy in the meantime?”

Draco led him into a smaller sitting room - who had a secondary sitting room off their main sitting room? Absurd. Flames burnt in the hearth, in front of which four armchairs sat in a half circle, with tiny stand tables between them. Harry let himself be led to a chair close to the fire, then watched Draco stalk off and busily pile up some papers on a desk under the window. “There’s such a terrible amount of paperwork involved in politics. I might see myself clear to a career in broom making instead.”

“Lot of paperwork in that too, I’m afraid,” Harry replied. He’d worked with an auror last year who used to be part of the quidditch regulations team. There were regs for the construction methods, materials, shape, charms and branding of a broom. Professional quidditch players sometimes fancied themselves subject masters and tried to go into production to make something better than those already on the market - only to fail a year later after discovering that everyone else was already making the best brooms possible within the bounds of the law, and their crazy theories for improvement would never see the light of day.

Draco sighed. “Well that’s it, then. Oh, what am I doing?” He swept over to a cabinet on the far wall, swinging it open to reveal three rows of glass decanters. None of them were labelled, but Harry supposed you didn’t grow up this posh without knowing whiskey from dry sherry. “Brandy, was it?”

Harry tried a grin. “I’m not fussy,” he said. So long as it had alcohol in, he really didn’t care. Then again, there were manners to consider too. He couldn’t come across as an oaf. “Brandy would be lovely,” he added.

Selecting one of the decorated crystal decanters, Draco poured them a more than generous measure each - probably about two doubles per glass, not a very refined amount at all - and then took a large gulp of his and topped it up before passing Harry the other glass.

He’d not thought they’d have anything in common, but seeing Draco uncomfortable enough to throw back brandy like vodka made Harry feel a lot more at ease. Then again, it wasn’t exactly something he could bring up as a conversation starter - hey so I noticed you deal with problems using excessive consumption of alcohol, me too!

“Something funny?” Draco said, cutting through his thoughts.

“No,” Harry replied, searching for something to say. “Um. Your hair looks nice.” Wow.

“I’d say the same to you, but you look as if you walked here through a hurricane,” Draco replied. He walked sinuously to one of the armchairs and sat down carefully. It was only then that Harry noticed he was wearing heels.

At some point in the last week, he decided, he had accidentally walked through a portal into an alternate, absurd dimension. It was the only thing that made sense.

  
Aware that he was staring, he ducked his head and made a show of flattening his unruly hair before settling into the second armchair. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you done this for a long time?”

“This?” Draco replied, though he surely knew what Harry meant. “Having a drink? I assure you it’s quite the common occurrence.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, realised that Draco was drinking faster than him somehow, and took a long sip. Ugh, stuff like this was really designed to be drunk in small amounts, he decided. “I mean, dressing in this way. When did you first realise that you wanted to?”

Draco shifted, crossing his legs in a way that made the dress ride up, showing off slender calves any woman would kill for. “For so long as I remember,” he said simply.

When no more seemed forthcoming, Harry tried again. “Do you just enjoy cross-dressing, or do you wish you were a-“

“Is this an interrogation now?” Draco asked, his voice pitched oddly, eyebrows raised in challenge.

Harry went for his best disarming grin. “No, no. I was just making conversation. It doesn’t matter to me either way, your business is your own.” Merlin, wasn’t this going well…

Draco stood, although they’d only just sat down. “We should move to the dining room,” he said, putting his glass down on a small side table. Ye gods, it was empty.

Harry followed, still holding his own glass half-full of amber liquid. When they reached the door however, Draco turned and gave it a slight frown. “You won’t need this, there’s wine,” he said, taking it. Their hands touched in a very certainly intentional way, and Harry would have stuttered if he’d been speaking. Draco’s nails were long and painted metallic silver.

The dining room was small and intimate, so he guessed it must be the third or fourth such room. There had to be a couple of big grand ones lying about. There were two seats set up for dining on the small table, barely larger than the one he shared with Snape at the pub. He pulled out a chair for Draco, before sitting opposite.

Oh God, Snape. He hadn’t even owled to explain what had happened. Hell, he didn’t know what had happened in order to explain it. Luckily, two glasses of red wine had already been poured so he had something to occupy him. Unpack later, drink now.

No wait, case now.

He deliberately lowered the glass. “Your notes were great,” he said. “You’d make an excellent auror.”

Draco snorted, his nose wrinkling at the prospect. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be seen dead working with one of that lot.”

Ouch, okay then. Clearly some bad water there. “You’re working with me,” Harry replied evenly. “Sort of, anyway.”

“Yes well, you’re not like other aurors,” Draco explained impatiently. He unfolded a white linen cloth and placed it in his lap with exaggerated care. “You’ve got that whole hero complex thing going on.”

“Merlin, is there no one on the planet who doesn’t think I have a hero complex?” Harry complained.

Draco shrugged elegantly. “No one who knows you.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not much better than the worst of them,” Harry replied.

Just then, the door swung open and Lini stepped inside carrying two bowls. Her hands were protected by a pair of cooking mittens with yellow ducks on, which Harry couldn’t help but smile at.

“Thank you,” he said as the steaming soup was placed in front of him with a warning that the bowl was hot. Draco echoed his thanks and asked for another bottle of wine to be brought up.

Harry stirred the soup a bit, waiting for it to cool. It looked like maybe carrot and coriander, or perhaps some kind of smooth sweet potato soup. It didn’t smell of anything in particular though. Draco dropped a spoon into his, but didn’t even feign interest in eating it as he cradled his wine glass instead.

“You seem like you hold your liquor very well,” Harry said. It was the least offensive way he could think to say you drink even more than me.

“It’s a talent and a necessity,” Draco replied lightly. “I do a great many unsavoury things.”

“Nothing I should be worried about, I hope,” Harry teased. He sipped a spoonful of soup but couldn’t pinpoint its flavour. Probably some magical ingredient he’d never heard of before. He washed it down with wine, a much more familiar taste.

Draco didn’t reply, which he supposed should be worrying, and he couldn’t think of anything else to say so they sat in silence until Harry had finished his soup and Draco had begun on a second glass of wine. The new bottle appeared without Harry noticing.

Seeing Draco drink so recklessly helped him put the brakes on his own desire to do the same. It was disconcerting, watching someone else behave as he usually did. Even with all the grace and prettiness Draco had at his disposal, there was still something a bit sad and pathetic about it. Was this how Ron felt when he was out with Harry?

Then again, Draco didn’t seem to be losing composure at all. His movements remained sharp and purposeful, and the only change was that he had started toying with a lock of hair that fell behind his left ear. It drew attention to his throat.

“I can tell you miss it. The necklace, I mean,” Harry said. He’d finally drunk enough to feel a bit pleasant.

Draco’s hand went to his throat, eyes wide for a moment as if he’d forgotten the necklace was gone. Then the expression disappeared and Draco melted back into the image of comfort. “I’m used to having it, but I can get by until it’s found.”

Harry thought he understood a little better now. Draco was putting on a good front, but he didn’t know how to proceed without a charm forcing others to his will. The awkward quiet of the meal made sense.

“It’s a stunning piece of jewellery, but I think you look plenty beautiful without it,” he said, hoping to put Draco at ease.

“Of course I do,” the man replied, as if affronted that it even needed saying. “I own more than one enchanted piece of attire, you know.”

Harry stilled at this. There were more charms? Was he under the influence of one right now? He didn’t feel like he was.

“Not that sort of enchantment,” Draco clarified. “The normal kind. Dress shimmers as I move, eyelash extensions that make my eyes glimmer even when the light’s bad. This bracelet hides the hairs on my arms, see?” He unclipped a delicate pearl bracelet and held out his arm for demonstration.

Harry couldn’t see any hairs either way, which wasn’t surprising considering how light Draco was. Still, he made an affirmative sound to appease the man, not trusting himself to say anything else without annoying him.

The main course arrived, chicken breast on a bed of some indistinguishable vegetable mash. The wine was swapped out for a white, which Draco continued to drink with surprising speed while Harry ate. Well, he also had a glass and a half, but it hardly seemed worth thinking about compared to the amount Draco was getting through. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t driving home.

Even so, by the time pudding came around Draco still refused to show any signs of drunkenness. Had he taken some type of preventative beforehand? Harry felt like telling him that it wouldn’t save him from a hangover tomorrow, but had enough sense between his ears to keep his mouth shut.

They stopped trying to converse, and Harry pushed the chocolate torte aside after only two bites. For one thing, he wasn’t used to eating this much, and for another he wanted to get on with the actual purpose of the visit.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to come up to my room,” Draco sighed.

“If the safe’s still there, then yeah.”

The blond man pushed his chair back and stood. “Alright then, follow me.” He necked the last of his wine and held out a hand, which Harry hesitated before taking.

He was practically dragged out of the room and up three flights of stairs - one grand and wide, and two more normal sized - to an ornate door. “This is it,” Draco said. “Would you like to come in?”

“I think we’ve already ascertained that I would,” Harry replied carefully, occupied with forcing his mind to ignore the hand that had been gripping his for several minutes already. “It’s the entire reason I’m here, right?”

Draco ducked his head. “Right,” he agreed, and pushed the door open with his back. He pulled Harry inside, and -

And then.

Then…

Harry blinked, his brain struggling to catch up with the last two seconds it had apparently blocked out. Draco had pushed him against the wall, not with a shove but with his entire body pressed against Harry. His hands held Harry’s wrists, but not with any meaningful force. He could easily break fr-

Draco pressed their lips together briefly before moving on to Harry’s cheek and then his jaw. It was- that. Draco was kissing him.

Harry felt like someone had punched him hard in the stomach or chest, winding him and taking away his ability to think for a moment of flashing panic. His lungs felt empty, but when he tried to drag in a breath nothing happened. His chest couldn’t move. He felt stuck, frozen. His stomach flipped a somersault. He had to move.

Draco had reached his neck, but Harry could hardly feel the press of his lips any more. His chest was stone, grounded in reality, but his head felt weird. Giddy, disconnected. As if the body he felt wasn’t really there, wasn’t real.

Draco moved a hand to Harry’s chest, but he couldn’t get his released arm to move. It was stuck there, his knuckles brushing dark panel wood. Strangely, Harry could see the detailed grain clearly with his head turned sideways, could feel the smooth polished surface as sharp and real as anything. He just couldn’t process everything else. He couldn’t even close his eyes.

Harry couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe - except that was wrong because he was taking in short, quick bursts of air through his nose, but somehow it didn’t seem to be reaching his lungs. Rationally, he knew this must be some kind of mental breakdown or attack of something, but it felt just like petrificus. He couldn’t even roll his eyes or make a sound as Draco slipped his hand up Harry’s chest to glide along his collarbone, then on to his neck. Fingers brushed the base of his hairline behind the ear, and he almost passed out, black spots appearing in his vision.

“Ugh, shitting hell I can’t.”

The hand disappeared.

Draco threw himself backwards onto a bed which Harry hadn’t the presence of mind to notice until then, arm over his face. Harry stood stunned, heart hammering. He tried to open his mouth to say something but it stayed clamped shut, like someone had glued his teeth together. There was this cold, numb feeling to his skin wherever Draco had touched him, prickling at the edges, and he still struggled to take in shallow breaths.

“I thought I could go along with it, but I can’t,” Draco said, his voice an echo of his old characteristic whine. He hit the pillow hard with his arm and looked up at Harry. “Just the thought of doing anything with you is so…” His face twisted into an expression of haughty disgust.

Harry took a breath, ungluing his jaw. “Thank fuck,” he whispered, and finally allowed his shaking legs to give way. His knees thudded to the rug, sending a jarring pain up his right leg that made him curse. He suppressed a laugh despite it. God. “You had me scared for a minute there,” he said, and failed to keep a tremor from his voice.

“I had you scared?” Draco replied incredulously, fists balled around handfuls of green silk sheets. “I’ve been scared shitless for the last twenty four hours. You’re the one who came on to me!”

Harry spluttered. “Only to find out if you’re gay, not because I am.” His faculties were finally returning to him. The realisation that he’d almost been… A sick feeling rose in his stomach, which he fought to keep down.

“Oh, well that’s all right then!”

“No, you- That’s not what I meant.” Gods, he needed to clear his head. Draco had just, had just kissed him. Pressed him against a wall and- His hand went to his throat, where he wiped away a thin patch of saliva. “We didn’t know if the cases were related to homosexuality, I was trying to find out the common motive,” he explained, forcing himself to concentrate on the issue. He wiped his hand on his trousers. “I shouldn’t have done it and I’m sorry, but it’s not like I made you kiss me, okay? I just wanted to solve the bloody case.”

“You just want to-? What do you think I was doing it for!” Draco sat up abruptly and jabbed a finger at his own chest. “You think I wanted to dress up like this for the likes of you, parade about like some fucking whore?”

Harry let the anger wash over him, expecting his own to rise in turn but the feeling just wasn’t there. He was too relieved to be angry - and too exhausted. Instead of raising his voice to match Draco’s, he sighed and rested his head in his hands. “I didn’t ask you to, or want you to.” God, that was an understatement. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

Draco threw a pillow at him. “Some bloody misunderstanding,” he said. They were both silent for a few long seconds until he spoke again more softly. “Did you really not come here to take advantage?”

Harry rubbed his eyes, then dropped his chin to his chest and pulled at the knots in his hair. “I really didn’t.”

“I can’t believe… I mean, how did you think it would come across? You arrive uninvited at my house, openly flaunt your disregard for the law like some corrupt auror from a teenage fiction novel and then-”“I did not,” Harry cut in, outraged. When had he broken the law? He was the most by the book person there was - well, mostly. He’d practically written the book on correct auror behaviour by introducing policies on proportionate use of force and offender protection. Innocent until proven guilty, all that. Standard Procedures.

Draco scowled at him. “Right, and the potion you poured into your tea while your little auror cronies gave me the evils was what? Milk and sugar?”

Ah… He vaguely remembered that. Putting the anti-inflammatory in his tea and then Draco making some comment about it. The idiot, had he honestly thought..? “It’s for my leg, you dolt.”

Draco ground his teeth. “Wow, now imagine if you had said that at the time, instead of letting me think you’d come over to take advantage of my desire to find the necklace.”

What- “I’m an auror!” Harry protested. “Not some fucking thug come to extort you.”

“You think there’s a difference?”

“Of course there’s a bloody difference, Malfoy,” Harry growled. “If aurors were going around extorting or harassing people, I would have found out about it by now, don’t you think? I’ve only been on the force what, thirteen fucking years? I think I would have noticed, what with this bloody hero complex I keep hearing about.”

Draco stood abruptly and swept over to a dresser near the door. He yanked a drawer open, scattering a few quills on the floor, and pulled out a folder made of yellowed card. He dropped it onto the floor and kicked it over, as if he couldn’t stand to come any closer to Harry. “That’s my experience with your holy order, Potter. That’s the truth about you, about the lot of you. You’re a blind man if you haven’t seen it.”

Harry eyed Draco and then carefully flipped the folder open with a finger. An album, sort of. He frowned, dragged it closer and opened it properly. Draco looked young in the photographs, so young. It was easy to forget that they had both been eighteen once. The first photos were taken soon after the battle of Hogwarts, and Harry flipped through the years. At the back of the folder, the latest entry had to be from the last few months.

In every single photo, Draco was bruised, cut or even burnt. Maybe forty or fifty incidents in a decade and a half - multiple times every single year. Mostly below the neck where it couldn’t be seen, but there were two black eyes a few years apart. It was nothing if not… consistent. Consistent abuse from the Ministry of Magic? He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. He’d bloody introduced those policies. There were procedures, forms to fill out to justify any use of force or restraint even on a murderer who’d committed the crime right in front of you. Auror brutality was just not a thing. A relic of the dark ages they’d managed to leave behind.

Wasn’t it?

He flipped back through the pages, stopping on a particularly bad slash on Draco’s back. “This one,” he said, finally looking up. Draco had poured himself a more than generous glass of something golden and syrupy. “Did it scar?”

“Oh, you want to see some proof, do you?” The man spat. He put his glass down on the dresser hard, sloshing liquid over his hand and down the side of the dresser. It dripped onto the wooden floorboards.

Draco reached back and undid a zip at his neck, twisting around awkwardly to pull it down further, and then let the top half of his dress fold down so that he was half naked. He looked fine from the front - barring a few faded pink lines that Harry didn’t want to think about - but he turned to reveal a long thin scar down his back just under the left shoulder blade. “That one good enough for you, Mr Auror sir, or do you want to see another one?”

Before Harry could open his mouth to say no, Draco was hiking up the skirt of his dress. What Harry had assumed to be tights were actually long stockings with white lace tops. The man peeled one back to reveal a burn scar, about the size of a hand on the inside of his thigh. How had he managed to get a burn there?

Harry swallowed, finding his throat suddenly dry. “Did they ever…?”

Draco huffed a dry laugh, dropping the skirt, and picked up his drink again. “Go on, Potter. You can say the word. I believe in you.” He knocked back a gulp, grimacing as the alcohol burnt his mouth.

“Rape,” Harry said. “Did they ever force you to have non-consensual sexual intercourse.”

The man took another long swig. “Let’s not call it sex, eh? It isn’t sex, it’s...” He shrugged uncomfortably, and seemed to remember that he was topless. He opened a wardrobe - although the word ‘armoire’ might suit it better - and pulled out a long robe, wrapped it around himself and then shimmied out of the dress and kicked it into the corner with a hateful look.

Harry wanted to do something, say something, but there wasn’t anything. He couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t believe it - couldn’t not believe it when Draco was right here telling and showing him. He looked through the pictures again, just for something to do while his brain was collapsing, falling. The Ministry of Magic. The aurors. Everything he, Ron and Hermione had done, was it all just wallpaper plastered over a hole in the wall?

Each image had notes written on the back in Draco’s untidy handwriting. Dates, mostly, and each had a number as well. Occasionally there was a reason or sarcastic remark - “looked at him funny or something”, “being a death eater”, “refusing to shake hands” - but mostly it was just dates. The most recent was only six months ago. Six months. What had Harry been doing then? Wallowing, probably. Drinking, not giving enough of a shit to see what was right under his bloody nose.

“I want names,” he said. It came out as a growl, and he realised that his hands were balled into fists on the floor. He looked up, found Draco’s gaze. “I want names.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, and Harry hated himself for the flash of fear in that expression. Then he turned and poured a second large glass of alcohol. He opened the same drawer as before and pulled out a single sheet of parchment, and brought both to Harry silently before sitting down on the floor in front of him.

Harry felt his anger dissipating again, but only on the surface. Inside, it boiled. He forced his tense muscles to relax, found that his leg was burning now that he had a mind to pay attention. The list of names was long. Many of the aurors had retired, quit, moved to other ministry jobs or died. He recognised the last three as currently serving aurors though. Two in tax and fraud, and one in homicide. That one was particularly worrying, and Harry felt the anger in his stomach pulse in response.

Addison Briggs. He was head of the homicide department, probably the single most influential and important auror in the entire Ministry. The physical embodiment of willpower and strength. Charismatic, driven and successful. The antithesis of Harry. There was a long row of numbers next to his name, which Harry realised linked to the photographs.

“He’s not the type to get his own hands dirty,” Draco said quietly. “But no matter whose hands they were, it was him.”

Harry scrubbed hands over his face. Merlin’s balls. “I’ll need to take these,” he said wearily. Out of all of them, anyone at the ministry, why did it have to be Briggs?

“No,” Draco shook his head, placing a hand posessively on the paper. “These aren’t leaving the manor.”

“Trust me, I can-”

Sudden anger contorted the man’s face. “No I will not trust you, actually. I won’t trust a single fucking one of you until someone gives me a bloody good reason why I should. A bigger reason than this.” He slapped the file shut and threw it behind him. The drawer opened to accept it, slamming shut again. Draco stood. “Now, do you want to look at this safe or not?”


	9. Chapter 8

Harry arrived home after midnight, not wanting to go back to the ministry even if it wasn’t out of hours anyway. He stumbled from the fireplace into his untidy living room, almost tripping over a stack of books he’d forgotten about. He’d never intended for anyone to actually use this fireplace, since it was locked down to deny entry to anyone but him and he hated travelling that way.

Fuck. What was he going to do about his bike? Getting another one would make it seem like he wasn’t expecting to find the culprit and get it back, which would be pretty embarrassing for the head of the Thefts department. Not to mention it was bloody expensive.

He lit the fire behind him with a quick spell, and used the yellow light to navigate the rest of the room. He very rarely came in here, so it had become a dumping ground for crap he couldn’t be bothered to find a place for. He kicked over another stack of books accidentally, grimacing at the pain shooting up his leg.

Oh, what the hell. He swept a few boxes off the sofa onto the floor and slumped down onto the cushions. It was comfortable, at least. Now all he had to do was not think about anything at all for six hours and maybe he could sleep. Ha, what a joke. He couldn’t help but think.

Auror Briggs.

Draco.

Severus Snape.

The thief.

Every single gay wizard in Britain.

Last week, he’d just been mindlessly doing the smallest amount possible for his job, drinking and not giving a shit about anything outside of that tiny box his life had become. Now there was... all this. He sighed, but it didn’t relieve the pressure in his chest.

He couldn’t think about the Ministry right now, or he might end up setting his house on fire in a rage, so he forced himself to other topics.

He should have been able to push Draco away. He should have been able to say no, to breathe. Instead, he’d become totally paralysed like some kind of pathetic, terrified animal.

At least during the incident with Snape, he’d been able to stand up and react. It was so… so fucking absurd and stupid. They’d been _touching legs_ , hardly the most traumatic and sickening event of the century.

Hardly what Draco had been through.

Just thinking about it quickened his heartbeat. He accio’d a bottle and glass, inspected the label. Nice. He’d forgotten the Glenmorangie was in here. He did what he always did when there was too much going on in his head. The only thing that made it go away. He drank.

At two in the morning, he wrote a letter to Snape explaining that his bike had been stolen so he wouldn’t be able to come visit again for a while, and apologising for his sudden departure… Yesterday? Had it really only been then? Everything was happening so quickly lately, rapid-fire life, and it was hard to remember what had occurred when - especially when he was a little bit pissed.

At four he decided to tidy up the room, swaying and stumbling as he shoved books into bookshelves, and papers into drawers. The boxes, he stacked against one wall. They were just things he’d never unpacked after he and Ginny divorced. Baubles, trinkets from holidays and other random shit. He could hardly believe he’d once been sentimental over them, had argued with her over who should keep the dancing figurine from Barcelona. It was so petty and stupid. He’d have to put it all in a pile and burn it at some point.

At five, he fell over and didn’t get back up, philosophically staring at the dark ceiling. He didn’t think about anything in particular, finally in a state kind of like peace. He didn’t get up, knew that if he started doing things again, then he’d never get back to this tranquil state, so he fell asleep on the floor next to a bookcase full of out-of-date defence manuals.

At seven he woke from a nightmare, possibly the only reason he didn’t sleep in until midday. He’d been paralysed while Nagini moved around him, squeezing tighter and tighter. He could still feel her scales sliding over his skin. Sweating, shaking and aching, he took a pain reliever, got up and stumbled to the bathroom for a shower.

At nine, he got to the office and locked himself in to get through the building pile of reports, without anyone noticing how drunk he still was. The hangover started to kick in at around eleven, but he’d already taken four pain relievers by then. They made him feel vaguely awake, almost alive. His back hurt, his head hurt, his leg hurt and the whole world could just go crawl into a bag and die. Or he could, he hadn’t quite decided yet.

Dowell knocked and brought him some lunch at midday, an inoffensive pastie that Harry nibbled at but couldn’t finish because of his unsettled stomach. “Merlin, you look like you had quite the night,” the auror said with a grin, but Harry was in no mood for joking around - or insinuating anything that might have happened at the Malfoy Manor last night. He’d had enough.

“Get everyone in here,” he barked, making the man jump and setting off his own headache again. “Go on, do I look like I mean next bloody week?”

Dowell fled, and within a minute the team had filed in to stand in an awkward line in front of Harry’s desk.

“Alright, I made some vague threats to some of you the other day but I feel like I have to be _really fucking explicit_ now,” Harry began, steepling his fingers under his nose. “I think we’re all pretty certain that this case is related to homosexuality, and it has come to my attention recently that gay folks don’t exactly have the best time of it - in general, or in their dealings with aurors. That’s us, by the way. So here are the rules. You don’t talk to anyone outside of the team about _anything_ to do with this case. Not one word, not even to your families or friends - and _never_ to your fellow aurors. Not names, not objects, not places. No gossip, not a single fucking word. Within the team, if I so much as catch a giggle, a muttered joke or even a _look_ I don’t like there will be hell to pay.”

He leaned back in the chair, taking in their shocked and uncomfortable expressions. He wasn’t going to bring up the allegations Malfoy had made, but he would still do whatever he could to make sure they behaved how they should. “Moreover, if I _do_ catch wind of anything like that happening, then a disciplinary hearing will be the least of your worries. We are aurors. Our job is to protect people - all people - and that’s what we’re going to bloody well do. Agreed?” They nodded, murmuring agreement, and Harry scowled at them. “Pretty sure I asked a question.”

They chorused a passable “Yes sir”.

Good. Not that he suspected any of this lot of being the beating-up-suspects type. He’d worked with three of them for years, and the fourth was a bit of a damp rag - not an ounce of violence resided in the bones of Auror Dowell, that much he knew for certain.

He sighed, rubbing his temples to alleviate his headache. He should probably ease up on the pain relievers or he was going to end up with a stomach ulcer on top of everything else. If only they weren’t the only thing getting him through the day. “Alright, anyone care to take me through the latest developments? Start with the bike.”

As usual, Zantia was the one who stepped up to reel off everything he’d missed.

“No witnesses at the time, but we have a list of ministry staff who were spotted entering or leaving the garage yesterday. Last time the bike was seen was around one o’clock. A group of friends went down specifically to see it on their lunch break, it’s been a bit of an attention grabber recently.” Great, _that_ would help narrow it down. How many people had been nosing about while he was gone? “But at least the reports are reliable, since there were three aurors in the group.”

Harry’s stomach turned. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel the same reaction to the word ‘auror’ again, even knowing he was one. “Which department?”

“Um, I’m not sure. Dowell, you knew a couple of them, right?” Zantia looked over at the slightly shorter man.

Dowell nodded. “Yeah, yeah. They were from my old department. I didn’t really get to know them or anything, I was only there a month before transferring here, but it was Aurors Roderick and Burkin from homicide and umm I can’t remember his name. The one from muggle affairs, has the awful ‘tache that goes down the sides of his mouth?”

Humm, why _had_ Dowell transferred from homicide so quickly? It was the squad everyone wanted to be on. It might be worth surreptitiously asking the man if he’d… seen anything. Then again, he was about as observant as a cod. Harry’s theory had always been that he just didn’t have the guts or the skills to hold out in murder. That’d show them for hiring straight out of training for the most exhausting, scary division in the ministry. They went through newbies like Dudley went through toys - quickly and destructively. They usually lasted more than a few weeks though.

“Oh, you mean Anthony Davies?” Tina piped up.

“That’s the one. They went down with some friends from the wizengamot and a couple of clerks. Ten of them, and they all remember seeing the bike. No one hanging about acting suspiciously, and no markings on the floor.” Dowell continued. “We have a list, and we’re in the process of confirming who was actually in the building during the last few hours of the day. Assuming that transiciation is the method, then they must have been alone or with accomplices when it was stolen.”

“And with an object that big, they’d want to cast from the location of storage, or they’d have to move it again later,” Zantia added, taking back control of the presentation. “They had to have seen the bike on the day to know where it was, but it would help if they knew the area as well. This increases the chance that the thief is actually someone who works at the ministry of magic, rather than a guest from outside.”

That complicated things somewhat. It would be harder to keep their progress a secret, and they could hardly expect to go around asking questions in the Ministry without their culprit catching wind. Still, it was finally something narrower than “literally anyone on the planet”.

“Anything else on the bike before we move on?” Harry asked. His eyes stung from lack of sleep, but his mind was starting to clear now that he was actually using it.

“Well, the grooves created by the transportation spell were a quarter inch deeper than we’ve seen for any other objects, even through solid rock. This confirms my speculation that the size and pattern of warping relates to the mass of the object and-”

“Anything else _relevant?”_ Harry clarified. They didn’t need to know how heavy the bike was, he already knew. It was _his_ bloody bike. Zantia went tight-lipped, but her eyes betrayed anger at being cut off from making a very smart point. Well, she’d just have to deal with it. “Okay then, as for the necklace… It was kept in a safe above Mr Malfoy’s bed, which he was sleeping alone in on the night of the theft.”

He rummaged in his robe pockets for the notes and rather grainy photos he’d taken of the inside of the safe. “The warping matches what we found at the other scenes. He wasn’t woken up by any unfamiliar sounds or sensations, so we don’t have a more specific time than ‘between ten at night and six in the morning’. We do know, however, that the necklace has been kept in the same safe, in the same location for the last two years. The thief must have chosen the middle of the night to make sure that it would be in the safe and not around Mr Malfoy’s neck.”

“I’ll cross reference the list of people who knew about the necklace with the bike list,” DeRobles said, earning a nod from Harry.

“The suspect has to be either someone from that list, or someone who has seen the safe and knew about the necklace from someone on the list,” Harry added. “So make sure to think of anyone who might have had reason to enter his room, even if they’re not on the list. That means aurors. Merlin knows he’s been arrested enough times. I’ve asked him for a list of lovers from the past two years, but that’s for my eyes only. Have we got anything new on the older thefts?”

It was strange calling them the older ones when they were still within the last week, but then it had been a bit of a hectic ride so far.

Mosser put his hand up to speak, something he’d never done before. Harry must really have terrified them all this time. “I did some digging around historical files, yearbooks and the like, and I found a reference to Minister Monterowwe. Looks like he attended one of the correctional schools, I’m not sure for how long, but we have a detention entry from when he was seventeen - he and another boy were punished for ‘deviance of a sexual nature’ on the same day, which in light of the circumstances of the case is probably enough evidence to suggest that he was gay.”

Well, it was a relief to find their theory becoming more airtight over time, but Harry would have preferred something that could help narrow down the list of suspects a bit more. They still had no idea what the _motive_ was, they had only a wild theory about the means, and the opportunity was open to almost anyone.

The motive was what bothered Harry the most, though. Was the thief winding up towards a political statement? It sure seemed that way, seeing as they’d stolen the motorbike of the lead auror on the case. They were escalating matters, and Harry wasn’t anywhere near ready for whatever was coming next.

“Good to know,” he said. “If there’s nothing else, then you can all fuck off - and someone find me Jameson, it shouldn’t take this long to screen a few letters.”

They filed out, and Jameson arrived only seconds later. That was bloody fast. “Alright Auror Potter, sir?” he said as he entered, a long box tucked under his arm. He closed the door. “You look like death if you um, don’t mind me saying.”

Lovely. Harry refrained from answering, and Jameson got the message. He dropped the box on Harry’s desk, and after a moment produced a loose piece of parchment from his pocket, putting that on top. “These are the screened ones. Uh, and this… ah, this one came for you half an hour ago, brought it right up. I recognised the owl, figured it’s for the case.”

Curiosity piqued, Harry took the letter and turned it around. _Potter_ was printed in too-neat spidery writing on the front, the sign of a letter dictated to a quill rather than hand written. “You know Snape?” he asked Jameson. It wasn’t like the potioneer - ex-potioneer - should have any reason to send so many owls to the ministry that one of the workers would come to recognise it as his.

The man hunched his shoulders. “Ah, n-not really, just he ah sends me beer sometimes. We’re not - I mean, I’m not really his type. He doesn’t like people taller than he is, you know? Weird that, if you ask me. Not, uh, that I’d like someone taller, even if I could find them, ah hah...”

Oh god, the babbling. “Yeah, he brews a mean pint,” Harry replied absently. He unfolded the letter.

_Potter,_

_What would I care if you can no longer infiltrate my peaceful drinking time with inane chatter, and quite frankly I’m glad you’re not flying around on that death trap any longer._

_In answer to your question, no I have not and nor would I ever consider it. Kindly refrain from bringing up the subject again._

_Kindly yours,_ _  
_ _“The Other Miserable Old Git”._

What in the world… Harry read it twice, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, then laid it flat on the table and tried to will away his pulsing headache.

Now that he thought about it, he had a vague recollection of writing a letter to Snape last night, but he couldn’t remember what he’d put in it - and he definitely had no memory whatsoever of sending it. “I think I drank too much last night, “ he groaned, which made Jameson laugh.

“What did you ask him? I’m dying to know,” the man said, leaning over to see the letter more clearly. Nosy bastard.

Harry shook his head. “Not a bloody clue,” he sighed. What would Snape never consider doing? What was the bloody question? He really needed to stop drinking so much.

Except for right now - he could do with a drink now. He’d stop later, when he didn’t have as many things he needed to forget. Stupidly, his first thought was to go down to Biddersea for a pint. He could use a nice wave of tranquility to get him through the afternoon.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing again. God, he was so fucking tired. He had so many thoughts, so many strands to keep straight in his head that they left no capacity to decide what to actually do about any of them. It wasn’t like he was in the homicide department, or that he thought there was a problem with any of his own small team. He also couldn’t simply waltz over to Auror Briggs, making accusations he couldn’t back up - and frankly, the thought of confronting him terrified Harry. _Briggs_ terrified him. Not because he was a particularly threatening man, but because he was competent, strong and well thought of. Everything Harry wasn’t. 

“What do you think of Auror Briggs?” Harry asked abruptly, looking up at Jameson.

“W-why’re you asking?” He replied, the caution in his voice speaking volumes. He knew something.

Harry motioned for him to sit. “It’s not related to the case. I’ve just been hearing things. I assume you’ve met him.”

Jameson’s face screwed up in distaste. “You haven’t?”

“I just want your opinion,” Harry said. Of course he’d bloody met the other department heads. Which reminded him, didn’t they have some kind of heads meeting coming up soon? That was going to be fun.

“Um, right…” Jameson took on a look of concentration, wringing his hands. “Are you asking what he’s like as an auror, what he’s like as a man - or what he’s like about... ah, people like us?”

Again with the _us_. He should set the man straight about that, but right now he supposed it served his purpose for Jameson to think they were in the same boat. “Any. All. Particularly the last.”

“He’s the ideal department head, stern but - ah - fair and he leads by example, or so I’ve um, heard. His team follow him like he’s the next coming of Jesu- ah. N-not many people have a bad word to say about him. I couldn’t say personally though. We uh, missed each other. Started after I...” Jameson paused, looking down at his hands, then shook his head jerkily. “Yes, well. Um, as for the last, he’s not- Ah. Great. I wouldn’t h-have any cause to know, except that his brother in law is-” He lowered his voice, glancing at the closed office door as if someone might be listening, then shook his head again. “Um, but I can tell you that he’s not too great with our kind, the impression I got was um… Something horrible h-happened when he was a kid, you ah, you know what I mean.”

Jesus Christ. It just got more and more complex, didn’t it? More awful, too. Was it never going to bloody end? Harry filed that information in the dark depths of his mind. It would already be difficult enough facing Briggs, without having nuanced thoughts about his actions. Easier to know that he was a bastard, and that was that.

“I should get back to work,” Jameson murmured after a minute, and Harry waved him off with an absent frown.

Again, he felt overwhelmed by the pressure of information he’d uncovered in the last week. It was too much - for him, anyway. Perhaps a stronger man could have handled it. Someone like Briggs. He let out a long sigh, staring blindly down at the letters on his desk.

He had the thefts for one. Then connected to that, there was the whole public figurehead thing he had ended up doing despite his protests to Hermione. And connected to _that_ , but also on its own, was the situation with Briggs and who knew how many other aurors. He had the sense that they were all wrapped up together, and if only he could separate out all the threads he’d have it worked out in no time.

Not with this hangover, though.

Oh, and while he was having a mope, he might as well remember that he couldn’t survive being touched by people for longer than a few seconds - to the point it had made him physically sick - and how everyone seemed to think he was gay when in reality he just wanted to be _left alone forever._

Okay, so not _alone_ alone, and not forever, but the thought of being intimate with another person made him queasy. Gods, when had that happened? He couldn’t recall any time in his life that he’d particularly wanted to have sex, not even as a teenager, but he’d gone through the motions well enough and followed what people generally expected from a relationship. He’d been able to do it for years. Perhaps not as often or as enthusiastically as Ginevra might have liked, definitely not enough to make her feel valued - but he _had_ done it. And cuddles too, though he supposed those had gotten poisoned towards the end. The double guessing and fear, is this just a hug? Is this just a kiss, or is it a kiss she’s going to make into more?

It had happened so gradually, and then with the divorce it had become one more thing he didn’t need to think about anymore. Except for the occasional handshake, or Hermione’s brief bruising hugs, Harry could barely recall touching anyone since then. It hadn’t really been a problem.

 _Unpack later_ , he reminded himself. He didn’t need to think about any of that now. Or ever. Preferably never. He had to concentrate on what he could do.

He wasn’t in a position to confront Briggs, but he had a duty to let Hermione know. He could also keep asking around on the down low, especially people he knew were gay and who had been arrested in the past. Damn, maybe he’d have to go for that pint with Snape after all, seeing as he ticked both of those boxes - ugh, but his _bike_ . And Snape meant thinking about things and facing things, because the man was so _touchy feely_. Everything went round in circles again.

He penned a quick memo to Hermione: _PB like a 70s cop show, you should watch._ She’d understand the message. Perhaps it was a silly precaution being so cryptic, but he didn’t know how many pairs of eyes it would go through before getting to her. He also didn’t sign it, knowing that she’d recognise the handwriting. It flew off as soon as he finished, folding itself into a tiny paper aeroplane as it rose into the air.

Then he wrote a letter to Snape. Or rather, he got out a piece of parchment to start then got stuck on the first line. What name was he supposed to write? Just Snape? That felt a bit rude, even if the man had called him Potter. Mister Snape? Nope. And he wasn’t a Professor anymore... Definitely not Severus. There really was only one safe option.

_To The Other Miserable Old Git,_

_I have a question regarding the case and something Draco told me. Can’t come to the pub, not allowed to portkey or apparrate. Don’t suppose you could let me through the floo? Promise I’ll be a model guest, no auror snooping._

_Regards,_

_This Miserable Old Git._

He folded the parchment carefully, though he didn’t usually bother with neatness, and stood to go find an owl. Luckily, Jameson was standing outside chatting with Dowell near the exit to the desk hall - so much for getting back to work. He called the man’s name and waved him over.

“Don’t suppose you could do me a favour and send this reply by owl? It’d save me a trip, if you’re headed that way.” Harry asked, tapping his leg, and Jameson nodded and smiled. “Oh, and could you put in an exception to allow any post from… this recipient to come directly to the office? I’ll keep the window open a crack.”

A slight frown appeared on Jameson’s forehead. “I’m not sure that’s, um, wise… Considering the number of ah, hexes I disarmed this morning,” he replied quietly.

Harry passed him the letter. “Go on, please. I need to talk to him but I can’t get over there without my bike, and if I have to go walking up and down six flights of stairs every ten minutes to check the post then my leg’s never going to heal up.” He could have ordered Jameson to do as told, since technically he outranked the man, but it was always wise to stay on the good side of the person who protects you from mail curses.

Jameson nodded hesitantly. “A-alright, I’ll write up an exception for you. It’ll just be the one owl though, um - Midnight, she’s called.”

What a name. Harry supposed it beat most of the Weasleys’ pet names though.

He got back to his desk to find a new memo lying on top of his quill. It had to be from Hermione, considering that all of his other post was being routed through security. It simply read:

_Already well underway. Don’t step on my toes on this, Harry. I won’t warn twice - stay out of the way._

Well okay then. Not only did she apparently already know, but she was investigating it without him, and wanted to keep it that way. Now that he thought about it, hadn’t Ron said something about a transfer? He’d bet anything that his childhood friend was moving into the homicide department to act spy for his wife. Damn and bloody fuck.

He knew it was irrational and childish, but he couldn’t help but feel stung. They’d always had their adventures as a trio - him, Hermione and Ron. They’d found the horcruxes together, planned out their vision for the Ministry together. Now it was just the two of them on a mission to root out corruption and abuse, and Harry would never have found out about it if not for an unlikely conversation with Draco Malfoy. They didn’t want any help or involvement from him.

He screwed up the memo into a ball and threw it into the waste paper basket. What was he thinking? He had enough on his plate anyway, and at least this way he could leave off on investigating that, knowing that people he trusted were on the case. Right? Right. He resolved to ignore the feeling in his chest, and the suspicion that they’d left him out because he was a mess with nothing useful to contribute, who they were embarrassed to be associated with.

He distracted himself by reading through the box of tidily sorted letters that Jameson had brought down. There was nothing exciting. Just all the random questions, requests and communications he’d usually get throughout the day, condensed into one pile. It was quite nice that they’d been sorted into types though, as it made going through them a lot faster - he knew exactly which ones to throw out without having to open them first. Amazing. Maybe he should get a secretary to do it for him.

He’d gotten through a quarter of the stack when a tap tap at the window made him jump. He turned to let the owl in, and laughed. It was black.

Where the fuck had Snape found an all-black _owl_? And how had he known it was black? Why had he even bothered, when he couldn’t tell? It was ridiculous on so many levels, but somehow typical that Snape cared so much about the colour when he couldn’t even see it.

He expected her to be angry and snippy, but she flew straight up onto his arm as soon as the window was open wide enough, and butted her head against his cheek as if they’d known each other for years. He grinned, despite his hangover. “Hey there, girl,” he whispered, running the back of his fingers over her beak and up the side of her head before remembering to take the letter she was carrying.

_That Miserable Old Git_

_I absolutely forbid you from entering my household for any reason whatsoever, at any time._

_I hope that your hangover is not quite as atrocious as I suspect it must be._

_Kindly yours,  
_ _The Other Miserable Old Git._

Well that was nice. Kindly yours, my arse.

Harry sat to ink a reply, turning his head to the side as Midnight decided to climb up his arm and sit on his shoulder. He wondered if she sat on Snape’s shoulder as he told the quill what to write, too, watching the darting feather with her sharp eyes. She pecked gently at his hair, getting her head all tangled up in his unruly curls.

_Other Miserable Old Git,_

_Come to the ministry, then. What makes you think I have a hangover? I’m fine._

_Regards,_ _  
_ _This Miserable Old Git._

The next letter came half an hour later in the shape of a bottle in a brown paper bag. Midnight hooted demandingly for him to remove the package, which he did, and gave her a piece of the pastie leftover from lunch as a reward. He unstuck the letter and read that first:

_That Miserable Old Git_

_I will never set foot in the Ministry of Magic again so long as I live, even if you foolishly attempt to arrest me, which I assure you would not be wise._

_I do not think you have a hangover - I_ know _you have one. A man does not write the type of letter you sent at four o’ clock in the morning unless he is quite thoroughly smashed, let me assure you. Drink this, it will help._

 _Kindly Yours,  
_ _OMOG._

Merlin, exactly what had he written in that damn letter? This was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. If he ever managed to get into Snape’s house, he was definitely breaking his promise not to snoop.

He unwrapped the paper bag to reveal a bottle containing about half a litre of perfectly clear liquid. Vodka? No, definitely not - although Harry did often think that the best cure for a hangover would be to stay drunk all the time. The most he’d managed was three days, thanks to work. There was no sticky label on the glass, but a small tag hung on a string around its neck. _JUST WATER_ , it read. Huh. He put it to one side so that he could pen the next letter, but when he did so the tag flashed red with flames. He quickly blew out the small fire, revealing a now-black tag with white lettering. _TRUST ME, POTTER._

Ugh, fine. He unscrewed the top and took a cautious sip. There was no magical wave of loveliness, and no strange flavour. It really was just water.

_OMOG,_

_Thanks. Midnight looks totally knackered though, wouldn’t it be nice if she didn’t have to keep flying back and forth? You know, like if we met in person? At your house? If you’re worried about me seeing all your secret Griffindor paraphernalia then I’ll keep my eyes closed the entire time._

_Regards,_ _  
_ _TMOG._

“Sorry girl, but hopefully this is the last one,” he told Midnight. She rolled her eyes as he attached the letter to her leg, and he felt his mouth twitch in a momentary smile thinking how well suited she was to her owner, despite her good temperament.

He didn’t get a reply again until five o’clock, when he was starting to wonder if he should just go home. He’d actually felt a little better after drinking the water - he couldn’t remember the last time he drank something other than tea, potions or alcohol - but what he really needed was sleep. His brain had gotten groggier and groggier over time, and he’d been on the verge of falling asleep at his desk for the last hour. He was in desperate need of a good night’s rest - a dire situation indeed, if even he was willing to admit it.

At least Midnight had gotten a rest, and looked less harassed than before. It was a long way for her to fly back and forth from Biddersea. Apparently, Snape agreed.

 _TMOG,_ _  
_ _House Rules:_

  * _There are no lights permitted in the house due to the sensitive nature of ingredients I keep. No lumos, no flames._
  * _No food or drink is to be brought in with you._
  * No more than five minutes of small talk.
  * No wandering about. Sit where I tell you and stay there, don’t knock over anything.
  * In fact, do everything you are told and nothing more.



_I will expect you at 7pm, and will not be serving dinner. Don’t be late, I am a busy man._

_To find the correct fireplace, please use this exact phrase upon entering the floo network: “I Harry Potter hereby declare Slitherin to be the superior Hogwarts house”. Remember to enunciate the words very clearly. You may want to practice a few times first._

_Kindly Yours,  
_ _OMOG._

It wasn’t the most inviting of invites, but it was _an_ invite so Harry was quite pleased overall. He had time to go home and shower quickly without being late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further plot thickening, because y'know, me n poor ol Harry weren't juggling enough before. Thanks for reading <3


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like in-touch-with-his-feelings-but-still-sarcastic Snape because I just edited the next few chapters and I was totally like T-T  
> (this fic is so long that I have only twice read it through all the way from start to finish, so there are bits I forgot happened until I started editing it xD)

Harry spent no time at all practicing the floo keyphrase - he didn’t want to say it any more than necessary - but he did spend six entire minutes in front of the mirror trying to decide how to greet Snape upon his arrival.

“Snape…  _ Snape… _ Hey there, Snape. Good evening, Severu...uhhhrgh. Evening, Snape! Hello there, miserable old git. Thanks for having me, Snape. Your house is lovely. God, what am I doing.”

He paced in front of the fireplace, or rather hobbled back and forth, not daring to sit down lest he fall asleep. He hadn’t been using his cane for most of the evening, but he had it now. Snape had said that there were no lights allowed, so he figured it’d be a bit dim and he could use the cane like muggles do to find obstacles before walking into them. It was a stupid idea. All his ideas had been stupid lately. He carried on pacing, put the cane down and then picked it back up a minute later. 

The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime, and he took a breath before stepping into the fireplace.

It turned out that “ _ I Harry Potter hereby declare Slitherin to be the superior Hogwarts house”  _ was quite hard to say all in one go, but after his second aborted attempt, he was sucked up the chimney and spat out into a pitch black room.

He blinked, waiting for his eyes to acclimatise as he brushed away the ash he suspected of coating his clothes. The room remained stubbornly dark, no matter how many times he blinked however. “Hello?” he said uncertainly, and rubbed an eye to check that it was actually there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been somewhere this dark, it really was completely lightless. No vague shadows or scales of grey. Just... black. Total blackness. His neck prickled.

He swung the cane in a careful arc in front of him, tapping it against the floor as if expecting to find a hole. It was awful, not knowing. How big was the room? Was it a room at all, or a cave, or a shack, or a dungeon? Was there furniture, was it the living room, the laboratory, the kitchen? He breathed slowly in an attempt to control his accelerating heartbeat, tried to ground himself in his other senses. He could smell dry dust and books, so cave was almost certainly out.

He heard something, a rustle, to his right, and swung in that direction but still saw nothing. It could have been a person, or a snake, or a troll or-

“Good evening.”

Fucking hell! That was closer than he’d thought. “Fuck, you scared the living shit out of me. Jesus.” Harry said accusingly, trying again to concentrate on his breathing. How could Snape stand living in darkness like this every day?

“I can’t think why,” Snape answered calmly. “I merely greeted you from the armchair in which I have been sitting all evening. I presume you can’t see much?”

“I can’t see fuck all,” Harry retorted quickly. “It’s like being in a bloody mineshaft or something, I can’t even see my own hand in front of my face.”

There was a dry clap that might have been the sound of a book being shut, but then Snape couldn’t read and Harry would have heard a dictation spell, so probably not. “How awful that must be,” Snape drawled from the darkness. There was some more rustling, and Harry took a step back, clutching his wand in his pocket. “I’m going to approach you, and then I shall take your arm and guide you to a chair. Is that satisfactory?”

Harry nodded and then remembered to speak. “Um, yeah. I guess. Just- I don’t like…”  _ To be touched.  _ It sounded stupid, demasculinating. “Not being able to see.”

“You get used to it, believe me.” The voice was suddenly much closer, and Harry fought the instinct to take another step back or cast lumos. Something touched his lower back, making him leap out of his skin, and Snape muttered an apology before finding Harry’s arm instead. “This way.”

Harry walked with shuffling steps, unsure of the ground in front of him, and afraid that he might tangle feet with Snape and trip them both. In the darkness, it was easy for his mind’s eye to run away with scenarios. Falling, Snape cracking his head open on a table, Harry casting lumos in a panic and finding it wasn’t Snape at all but Voldemort returned, or Auror Briggs. 

“Turn around here.”

Merlin’s balls. That was right next to his ear. He felt the man’s breath on his cheek, imagined his face hovering right  _ there _ , a mask staring at him from the darkness. Was it even really Snape, at all? He clenched his hands and blinked a few times, even though he already knew it would do nothing. His body was screaming at him to run or fight, in dramatic contrast to the eerily silent room. There was no stimulation at all. Neither a tiny flickering light nor a distant sound to give him any indication whatsoever that he wasn’t floating up in space somewhere. It was like a dream, or a nightmare, and he really honestly was too exhausted to handle it.

“You need to turn around, or you’ll be sat on the floor,” Snape repeated patiently. Harry cautiously felt behind him with a hand, not fully trusting that there really was a chair to sit on, and was relieved to feel cushions. Something real other than Snape’s hand on his arm.

It was a sofa, not a chair, and he felt movement as Snape sat down on the other side of it. “I’d offer you a drink, but I suppose you’d like some time to recover.”

Like hell he would.

Harry tried to get comfortable, but kept getting the feeling that something was going to rise up out of the floor and bite his feet. Like a child fearing the monster under the bed, part of his mind was telling him that the sofa was the only safe place, and that a witch - the halloween sort with green skin and warts - was about to swoop past and chainsaw his legs off if he didn’t get them inside the bubble of safety. He remembered Snape again. “Hm? Oh, no it’s fine. I don’t feel too bad, so if you’re having something then I’d be glad for a glass.” If only to have something tangible to hold on to.

He tried lifting his feet up onto the sofa, then realised it was probably rude considering he was wearing shoes. Should he take them off? What if he never found them again? What if Snape tripped over them and broke his arm and Hermione ended up investigating  _ him _ ? He heard glasses tinkling, then liquid being poured. Probably some kind of drinks table at the other end of the sofa, since he hadn’t felt Snape getting up again.

The childish fear of floor monsters won out against his visions of an injured Snape, and he slid off his shoes, but picked them up and put them on the armrest for safekeeping, and then leaned the cane up against the arm as well. He tried not to groan or make any other noises as he lifted his right leg up. It wouldn’t bend quite enough to stay up at this angle, so he turned his body a little towards Snape and carefully stretched out as far as he dared.

“I’m reaching out with a glass now,” Snape told him, and Harry put out his hands to find it. It was nice and cool, as if the glass had been kept in a fridge. Something brushed his knee. “What- ah.” Snape pulled his hand back. “Is that comfortable for your leg? Wait just a moment, here…” A cushion was pushed under his feet, then pulled away, dragging Harry’s feet with it until they were leaning against the hard arm of the sofa. No wait, not the arm. Snape’s legs.

Harry froze, waiting for the stone stomach feeling, but it didn’t come. With the cushion between them, it seemed like he was fine - and much more comfortable than he’d been a few seconds earlier. He unclenched his teeth to thank Snape, but then he wasn’t sure what for so he didn’t. “You do pretty well in the dark,” he said instead. God, it was such a stupid thing to say. And why was he worrying about it, anyway? It was just Snape. Greasy old git, miserable bastard. General menace. It didn’t matter if he thought that Harry was stupid.

Instead of chewing him out for the obvious comment, Snape hummed. “I’ve learnt to make do.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything else to say. He couldn’t see Snape’s face or tell how he was feeling, and couldn’t get a sense for the space they were in at all. Now that he’d put his feet up, he almost felt like he was on a boat floating through space. Nothing else existed outside of these cushions - no floor, no walls, no ceiling. No town, no mountains or roads or ocean. Nothing at all, except for this one sofa, him and Severus Snape. And a glass of very nice whiskey.

“You had some questions relating to the case?” Snape asked after what could have been a few seconds or quarter of an hour.

“Uh yeah, well it’s sort of related. You see, I met with Draco last night and…”

Harry meant only to say the very basics as context for asking about Auror Briggs, but ended up telling everything. Maybe it was the darkness, not being able to see anyone, that made him more talkative than he usually would be. It was like talking to no one, talking to an empty room.

Harry talked about arriving, making small talk, and about dinner. He even spoke about going up to Draco’s room, about freezing up - he definitely hadn’t intended on telling anyone about  _ that _ , but it all just came out in the darkness. The room’s silence was so unbearably absolute that it begged to be filled. Part of him knew that he was in no fit state to be investigating anything, that he should stop talking because this wasn’t stuff anyone else could ever know about him - but it was overshadowed by a growing desire to get all the shit filling his head  _ out.  _ Out there in the darkness where it could stop disturbing him.

“I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t stand to be touched anymore. I freeze up, like my blood’s turned to ice and all I can do is watch. Like getting petrificus’d, but I can’t even blame someone else for it. It’s me, it’s in my head, and I can’t hack it. I hate it, it makes me so…” He waved his hands in a vague gesture, and was disturbed anew at not being able to see the movement.

“Is that what happened at The Globe?” Snape asked, speaking for the first time and startling Harry out of his storytelling. Shit. Snape had been here the entire time. Of course he had. Who had he thought he was talking to?

“Yes,” he said, after failing to find something better to say. There was no point in lying, and now that he had talked about  _ feelings _ for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he could stop it if he tried. He rested his head on the cushion behind, tired. What the hell, he’d already done a Jameson, he might as well continue. “Our legs were touching. It was fine at first. I think the beer helped, for a while at least, making me feel calm. Then I got this feeling like there was a rock in my stomach and I had to get out of there. It was... too much.” He laughed bitterly. “Imagine that - brushing legs with someone under the table is _ too much _ . What kind of a man does that make me? What kind of auror?”

“I don’t need to imagine it,” Snape replied. There was a clothy sound that could have signified anything, and Harry really wished that he could see the man. Or maybe he didn’t, because this was all so much easier when he could pretend that it wasn’t real. Just voices in the darkness. “It won’t shock you to hear that I struggled with intimacy for most of my life. It wasn’t until I became blind that everything changed - where before I couldn’t stand to be touched, now I am troubled constantly by isolation. Are you real? Have you left? Are you looking at me and paying attention, or reading notes from work? Sometimes it seems that I’m the only person left on the planet.”

Harry swallowed and pushed the cushion against Snape’s leg a little in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. As much as feelings weren’t really his forte, he did think that perhaps something more was expected of him though. “I’m looking at you,” he said, then gave a short bark of laughter. “At least I think I am. I can’t really tell, if I’m honest.”

“And I am looking at you,” Snape replied. It made Harry’s chest tighten. “Why don’t you carry on with what you were saying?”

Harry rushed through the rest without as much detail, skipping over the parts to do with the safe and thefts, although he was sure Snape would find the idea of transiciation fascinating. Then he finally got to the point, about the aurors and Briggs, about the roiling anger that soured his stomach. “I suppose I just wanted to talk to someone else who might have been in a similar situation,” he finished. “Did they ever treat you… like that?”

The thought that anyone had touched Draco that way was sickening enough, but somehow it disturbed him more that it might have happened to Snape, whose entire image was based on strength and pride. He’d always been the bastard, the greasy git, but even in his bitterest moments, Snape had been strong in every way that mattered.

Snape didn’t answer right away, so Harry took the opportunity to finish his drink. He’d been too busy talking, and was glad for the rush of fire down his throat to keep him awake.

“I’ve managed to evade the law quite effectively for the last two years,” Snape said slowly, after another excruciating infinity of minutes had passed. “I lived at Spinner’s End for decades. It was my childhood home, and sheltered me to a greater or lesser extent through both wars - despite the dust, damp, mould and memories, it was home. But it seemed that every few weeks there would be some reason or other for an auror or ministry official to visit. I heard every excuse under the sun - from checking the safety of my home to being reported by my  _ muggle _ neighbours for suspicious activity, to new policies being introduced. They were mostly under the pretence of my safety and health, but I can assure you that the individuals conducting the visits did not hold those objectives in the forefront of their minds. Unlike Draco however, I kept no evidence.”

Harry tried not to react as a hand touched his ankle and rested there.

“And so I moved. No one knows where I live. The house appears on no magical maps, though it is on the muggle Ordnance Survey. Owl post is directed to a postbox in the village, from which Midnight collects it and brings it home. The floo is usually closed and there are anti-apparition wards on the house and garden.” Snape listed these measures in a slow neutral voice, like listing the ingredients required for Dreamless Sleep. His outer calm was negated by his thumb rubbing circles into the side of Harry’s sock. “I had two tranquil years of living peacefully by the sea. Then you arrived, and I thought - this is it. Here we go again. I would have preferred… Ah, I’m sorry.”

The hand pulled away suddenly.

“It’s alright,” Harry assured him quickly.

Was it alright? It couldn’t be alright if it was super weird, right? But he hadn’t felt that awful sensation again. He was fine. No, it didn’t  _ matter _ if he was fine, it wasn’t alright to be sat on a sofa with Severus Snape, who had a hand on your foot. That was exactly the definition of not alright. What was wrong with him?

He shouldn’t have come. His mind was all muddled up from the constant pain and exhaustion of the last week.

Snape didn’t start talking again, and Harry didn’t know what to say either so they sat in silence.

Now that he was used to it, the darkness wasn’t all that bad. He let his eyes droop closed, which didn’t make a difference to his vision but did remind him how incredibly tired he was. He realised that he was going to fall asleep, but couldn’t lift the weight of his eyelids.

There was a moment of panic when he awoke as he tried to remember where he was and why he couldn’t see anything. Then he had a second one as he realised that he’d moved his feet all the way into Snape’s lap, ignoring the cushion. He carefully pulled them away and sat up properly, gritting his teeth against his aching leg. The floor was cold, and it alerted him to the fact that  _ he _ was cold. He shivered and wrapped his robe around himself where it had fallen open.

“Snape?” he whispered. No reply came.

Where-? No, Harry knew he was right there, had felt his legs there only moments ago - except now he wasn’t so certain. Could have been anything, and in the meantime Snape was lying dead somewhere… Merlin, this darkness wasn’t good for him. He could always lumos, it wasn’t like Snape would be able to tell.

Then again, he wouldn’t put it past that man to have alarms for it, and then Harry would be out on his ear with no return invitation, for ruining Snape’s sensitive ingredients. Not that he had any particular desire to come back into this awful room, but he at least wanted to prove that he could be a good guest.

He should go.

“Hey, are you asleep?” he whispered again. Again, nothing. A spike of fear rose in him that the man was gone or dead.

Harry slid a hand along the sofa cushion in that direction, then scooted up to get closer when he felt nothing within reach. There, he felt denim, and moved his hand up. Cotton. It was warm, had to be Snape. At least it was a person, anyway. He moved up again and found the shoulder. Long hair tickled the back of his hand. Almost definitely Snape then. He let out a relieved sigh.

“Hmmm,” Snape said blearily, making Harry freeze. His head must have moved, bowing, as the hair spilled over Harry’s wrist. Then nothing again. He was still sleeping.

Harry carefully removed his hand and sat back. What now? Wake Snape up? He couldn’t even tell what time it was, although the cool air made him think of the early hours.

“You needn’t have stopped there,” Snape said, voice thick with sleep, and yawned. “I find the face particularly useful to feel in a panic.”

Harry flushed, glad the man couldn’t see it. So he’d only been pretending to sleep. Sneaky bugger.

Snape groaned, the type people did while stretching, and the cushion dipped. “Merlin, I’m too old for sleeping in chairs. And there’s no need to apologise, I know what it’s like.” Harry had no intention of apologising anyway.

Silence stretched between them, until Snape spoke again. “Does it make you anxious to touch others, or is it only when you yourself are touched?”

Harry frowned, rubbing his fingers over the rough cushion cloth under him. “I guess it’s other people’s actions more than mine, although I generally avoid it, so how would I know?”

“Would you…” Snape cleared his throat. “Would you mind trying? It’s disconcerting having another wizard in my home, and since I can’t keep an eye - or a hand - on you, I would appreciate knowing where you are.”

Harry opened his mouth to say that he could just leave, seeing as they’d talked about what he wanted. There was no further reason to stay, so Snape’s problem could just as easily be solved by Harry getting back in the fireplace and going home. He clenched and unclenched his hands, and stared down at where he thought they might be. It was so weird here, like existing outside of time. Not being able to see made everything less real, but the things that were real became infinitely greater. Amplified.

He moved closer again, scooting along until his shoulder was in contact with Snape’s. “This okay?” He asked. Snape’s arm was warm, and he didn’t mind leaning against it to leech that warmth into his own body. He couldn’t pull his legs up in this position, so his heels rested on the cold floorboards. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken his shoes off after all, and now they were out there in the darkness. Lost forever.

“This is adequate,” Snape replied in a low rumble, accentuating the smoky aspect of his voice. “Though a hand would be preferable.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Harry replied, nudging the man with his shoulder. This was alright so far. No weird heart palpitations or paralysis. He still felt as calm as he had before, if not more for the heat of the body next to his. It was only his rational brain screaming at him now.  _ What are you doing, this is insane! _

Snape shrugged, and Harry appreciated being able to feel the gesture. It gave a better picture in his mind. “A hand is more human,” the man said.

“You expecting something else?” Harry joked, but he’d spent most of his time here imagining all sorts of inhuman beasts and monstrosities so he wound their arms together and wrapped a hand around Snape’s wrist. It was slightly awkward, but holding hands would have been more so for obvious reasons. Then again, Snape really was a blast furnace and Harry was still cold, so after a few moments he put his other hand on the back of Snape’s.

With the newfound warmth in him, he started getting drowsy again. “Don’t let me fall back asleep, okay?” he mumbled. Snape hummed something in reply.

He woke up the second time with his cheek pressed into something warm. His arm was cramped, and when he tried to move he found it was trapped. His back twinged. He groaned, pushing away from the warm thing, and rubbed his cheek with his free hand. It was very dark, but he wasn’t alarmed this time. He felt… relaxed. Comfortable, despite the uncomfortable position he’d woken up in.

In short, he was better rested than he’d been in a long time. He’d finally slept through an entire night.

The warm thing let out a low moan, and the arm entwined with Harry’s moved so that he could take back his own. Snape groaned again, stretching. “Hnng, merlin that hurts…” Harry hummed in agreement, and the man froze. “Wh-?”

“It’s me,” Harry said, rubbing sleep dust from the corner of his eye. He put a hand on Snape’s arm and squeezed a bit. “It’s Harry. We fell asleep.”

Muscles relaxed under his fingers. “Hmm. Of course, mm good morning Harry.” He put a hand over Harry’s on his arm. “Do you drink coffee?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m a tea man through and through,” he said.

“How patriotic of you,” Snape answered. “Hmmmm, I’m going to get up.” It sounded like he was telling himself, more than Harry. “Wait here.”

There was a cacophony of groaning, bone creaking and clicking as the man rose, reminding Harry that he was in his late fifties now. And still no greys apart from that one artistic streak near the front. He wondered if Snape dyed his hair. Harry had started to find grey hairs a year ago, and he did his best not to look anymore.

He listened for Snape sounds, trying to judge how big the house was. He heard the clatter of mugs, and a few minutes later the distinctive whistle of a kettle. They came from behind him and to the left, he imagined from an adjacent room. Through a doorway, but not down a corridor. That was his bet.

“Do you take milk and sugar?” Snape called. As if all this was normal for him. He’d claimed that no one knew where he lived, but Harry wondered how many muggles had come to stay the night. Not that it was any of his business.

“I’m not fussed,” Harry called back. While he was alone, he pulled a pain reliever out of an inner robe pocket and downed it. “A bit of both is fine.” Without the more obvious visual side effects - the world and its colours brightening, and the sharpness - the potion felt odd to take. It diminished not only the pain of his leg, but also some of the stress he carried elsewhere. It was soothing, and he let out a long, quiet sigh. He always felt so much more alive after taking it.

Distracted, he didn’t hear the footsteps until Snape was almost on him, and he knocked the mug trying to find it. Hot water spilled over both their hands, which only made it more difficult as they both half let go of the mug at the same time. Harry managed to grab it before it could fall, then flicked the cooling water off his fingers. “Did it burn you?” he asked, hearing what he thought might be the sound of Snape wiping his hand on his trousers.

“It won’t blister,” the man replied before sitting down beside Harry. His knee found Harry’s, who wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or not. After a moment of consideration, he rested a hand on Snape’s leg. It was easier than the arm, and it wasn’t until after he’d done it that he considered the social implications of the placement. He fought the urge to snatch it back - that would only draw attention. He decided to just drink his tea and ignore that his left hand existed at all. He was very good at ignoring things he didn’t want to think about, and considered it one of his most useful skills.

He was astounded yet again by how natural it felt to exist with Snape. Especially in the dark when he couldn’t see the man. It was harder to feel self conscious about something no one could see you doing. They sat in silence, drinking. It was the most peaceful Harry had felt in… in memory. There had to be  _ some _ time he’d felt better than this, but he was usually drunk when he felt content. It was a strange feeling, being sober and not stressed. Good thing it was a Sunday, and he didn’t have to think about what time it was or what else he should be doing. Although it wasn’t like crime slept in on the weekends… He’d worked six days this week though, and he was only contracted for five. Without thinking, he leaned against Snape’s shoulder again but the man didn’t seem to mind. How did he manage to give off so much heat all the time? “What’re you up to today?” Harry asked.

“Hmmm, I plan to wake up,” Snape said. Now that Harry was more awake, he could tell how sleepy the older man sounded and it amused him greatly.

“How many coffees does that usually take?”

Snape only sipped his drink in reply. Poor bastard, classic coffee dependence there. Once you started on the stuff, it became impossible to function without it.

He must have brought in a cafetiere, because a while later Snape shifted away and there was the glug glug of liquid being poured. He sighed appreciatively. They shifted again, Snape turning slightly to face Harry so that he was leaning against the flat front of his shoulder instead of the bony point. They continued to sit in silence until Snape had finished his second cup, and Harry was just cradling the dregs of his tea in his lap, one hand still on Snape’s leg.

“Are you feeling- comfortable?” Snape asked, the thickness of sleep finally beginning to fall away from his voice.

Harry dropped his head onto the man’s shoulder. “Trying not to think too much about it in case my brain realises, but yes I seem to be fine. I reckon being in a pitch black room helps, actually.”

He felt the muscles of Snape’s neck move as he nodded slowly. “In that case, do you think I could move my arm? I have pins and needles.” He moved his arm to demonstrate, and Harry pulled away to let him but Snape put his arm around his shoulders and pulled him back in gently. “Is this still fine?”

Harry tensed, waiting for the rock to form in his stomach. It was one thing to lean against someone when you could pretend they were a brick wall or something, and quite another to be in... an embrace? Nope, he wasn’t calling it that. Leaning against someone while they had their arm around you didn’t have to be an embrace. It was still just leaning, and Snape’s arm just had pins and needles from being squished by Harry. The stress didn’t arrive, except in the embarrassment that flushed his cheeks.

He was old now, far too old to- what? Far too old to enjoy the company of others? Too old for a hug? It was a stupid concept, otherwise how would marriages last into retirement. Well, not his. Maybe  _ he _ was just too old for it, in his mind.

He forced himself to relax. “What’re your plans for the day?” he asked again, now that Snape seemed to be fully awake.

“What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

“Hummm…” Snape leaned back, and a lock of hair flicked at Harry’s forehead. “I had nothing in particular to do, but you can’t stay forever as I imagine at some point you will need to use the bathroom.”

Oh god, now that he mentioned it Harry did need a wee. “I can pop home and come back,” he said, though he didn’t relish the thought of going back out there into the world. He could just stay here forever, curled up on a sofa in the dark. With Severus Snape. Gods, what was the matter with him? This was insane.

But it didn’t feel insane, right now.

He felt different, a different person - or maybe more himself, he didn’t know. He hadn’t been himself in so many years that he wasn’t sure there was a self to  _ be _ anymore. It was like being drunk, but without the drunkenness or hangover. Just the ability to shut out everything else.

“I suppose you haven’t been an atrocious houseguest so far,” Snape said after a minute. There were often long gaps between the things they said to one another, but it was a comfortable silence every time. “I would not be averse to you returning another day.”

They sat together quietly for a long time, until Harry could no longer avoid the necessity of a toilet trip, and then Snape helped him to the fireplace again. Parting was strange, and letting go of Snape’s arm felt like cutting off his own hand.

As he stepped out into his own living room, life hit him like a wall. He stumbled back against the light, shielding his eyes and hitting the back of his head on the mantle. “Fucking-” A sharp pain jumped up his hip as he put weight on his bad leg, and he narrowly avoided hitting his head a second time. He dropped to the floor just to be safe, covering his head with his arms.

He slammed a fist against the carpet. “Fuck!”


	11. Chapter 10

Harry spent the rest of Sunday pacing and trying to distract himself. The hours at Snape’s house were like a dream, so different from the reality of his life that it was difficult to think of it as something that had really happened. He sat down on the sofa for a few minutes before getting up, finding it cold and strange, and walked to the kitchen.

He opened cupboards and banged them shut again. He didn’t generally keep food in the house, so there were two tins of spaghetti hoops and one of sliced peaches that were at least three years old in the corner unit, and not much else. A single carton of gravy granules stared at him from one of the upper cupboards. He closed the fridge very quickly after opening it, and resolved never to do so again, and then decided the kitchen wasn’t for him anyway.

He had other things to be thinking about than Severus Snape, bigger worries. It wasn’t worth the time to question what had happened.

He swept the hallway, even though no one he knew would ever have cause to use the front door to which it led, and it was hardly the easiest of activities with his leg. The cobwebs fought back, sticking to the broom and trying to suck him in until he petrified them. Bloody spiders.

There really was no reason to keep coming back to it. They’d just sat beside each other on the sofa, that’s all. For twelve hours. Basically hugging. And they’d fallen asleep together twice. It wasn’t a big deal at all, and it raised no questions whatsoever.

He cleaned up the living room next, finishing the task he had begun while drunk. He banished dirt from the carpets and dusted the shelves, tidied away books and souvenirs and made a pile of things to throw away in the corner. His face and hands got coated with sticky old dust, and he decided to shower.

It was nothing. It didn’t mean anything that he’d been able to sit with Snape for so long without being panicked. He’d reacted awfully at the pub before, so it had nothing to do with the man. Just the circumstances. It wasn’t like he wanted to sit with Snape again. No one in their right mind would want to sit with Severus Snape. He was the number one person to avoid in any sane person’s mind.

He spent twenty minutes carefully repairing the side of the bathtub. The seam was visible and jagged, so he fetched fixo-tape from the cupboard under the stairs and sealed it up. It didn’t look great, but it wouldn’t leak water onto the floor anymore. While he was down at the cupboard returning the tape, he found yet more stuff he’d just dumped there after the divorce, and got distracted clearing it out without having actually showered yet.

So what if Snape had turned out to be a relatively decent human being? Most people were. Well, maybe not most. There were other people Harry didn’t find annoying - he just couldn’t think of any right now. They were two miserable old gits, right? That’s what they were calling themselves. The miserable old gits. _Lonely_ miserable old gits. It was a bit sad, really.

He gutted the cupboard, pulling out the wonky shelves that had always been there, stopping only to catch his breath and summon a pain reliever or two to keep him going. It was bigger than the cupboard he had grown up in, or longer at least, but just as narrow and dark. He had a lie down in it, just to see if it was long enough, and then closed himself in.

Maybe this was what he needed, a little space away from the world. It didn’t have to be with Snape. He could lie here alone and not have to worry about anything.

He used the fixo-tape and strips of an old blackout curtain to fill up the holes in the stairs where light filtered through, then used the rest to pad around the ill-fitting door and block that up. Even after all that, he could just about see his hands in the darkness. It wasn’t quite dark enough. On top of that, he could hear the hum of the fridge and various creaks and whistles of air passing through the old house. It was nothing at all like he wanted.

And no, it wouldn’t be any better if Snape was here. He put his hands over his eyes, pressing his palms into the sockets so hard it hurt. This was the darkness he wanted. _Didn’t_ want. Why would he-

“Augh!” he sat up abruptly, fed up with himself, and hit his head on a step. He shouted a string of expletives, kicking at the stairs above with his good leg. He was showered with dust, and a piece of fixo-tape came loose and drifted down to land on his stomach.

He threw open the door and scrambled out, jarring his leg again in the process, but it wasn’t better here either. There was nowhere he could go to get away from his own head. Nowhere except the drink, and he was doing his best not to indulge that.

He had to get it all out.

“Fine!” he shouted, staring up at the ceiling with clenched fists. “Fine, I enjoyed it. It was nice. Is that okay? Is that _allowed_?”

No one answered, but he felt some of the pressure in his head alleviate. Huffing, he hobbled upstairs to take that shower after all, hands gripping the stair rail tightly. “It’s not that big of a deal,” he muttered to himself. He’d enjoyed a pleasant evening with a gentleman who had similar interests as him - aka low-key hating the world and everyone in it, and being generally annoyed about everything all the time.

If anything, he should be happy that he hadn’t reacted badly. That’s what he’d been worrying about before, wasn’t it? Well, now he didn’t have to. He could be in close contact with other humans, yay! Great! Or at least one human. In total darkness. He decided resolutely that it was a win.

He climbed into the tub, thought about putting up a handrail to help him in and out, but then decided against it. He didn’t want to need one. He _didn’t_ need one. He could still cope, he didn’t need help getting into the bath. A real shower would be better, one he could walk into. Maybe he should talk to a plumber. God, how did one find a plumber? He was very lucky never to have needed one - or rather, to be the type of person who ignored problems others might call a plumber for.

There was that WC off the old master bedroom. It had stopped flushing, so he’d just moved into the guest room, which was closer to the house bathroom. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Or rather, the easiest thing. He’d completely forgotten it was there until now. It was probably full of bloody spiders. The things had taken over so much of his house that he often wondered who actually owned the place.

He contemplated moving to a small flat somewhere instead, or a little cottage. Somewhere quiet and out of the way where there was no constant, distant din of traffic. No light to pollute his peace.

He realised as he was scrubbing down his arm - the one he had used to lean against Snape - that he was thinking of Biddersea. Nope. He did not want to be going down that mental path, and tried to steer his mind elsewhere.

He’d know by now if he was gay, right? He didn’t _fancy_ Snape. He didn’t think that was actually possible for anyone even if they were gay, considering his greasy hair and uneven teeth. Not to mention the massive nose, sallow skin and constant scowl. There wasn’t anything about the man to be attracted to.

He paused in the act of shampooing his hair. Snape was tall, people liked that sort of thing didn’t they? Leaning up to kiss their partner. It was supposed to be more romantic or something. Maybe it was the tough big guy thing, having someone bigger than you who could protect you. And he supposed the galaxy eyes were pretty to look at, even though they were the result of a curse. He laughed out loud, imagining someone trying to tell Snape they thought his eyes were _pretty_. But other than his height and his eyes, Snape had nothing at all going for him in the looks department.

Oh, and he had long, graceful hands if you ignored the creepily pale skin. And a full head of hair. It had taken Harry a while to realise why so many wizards wore hats even indoors. He thanked his genes that he had kept all his hair.

Okay, so overall Snape was an awful looking man, but he had _some_ things going for him. It didn’t matter in the end though, because his personality was even worse. He was cantankerous and sarcastic, mean-spirited…

Harry frowned.

He’d not really been any of those things, actually. He’d been welcoming and patient. They’d not argued or thrown hexes at all, not even close. He was also understanding, and knew when to just be quiet and enjoy the moment - _and_ had shown a lot of concern for Harry without making judgements like everyone else did. He hadn’t even come across that miserable or git-like, now that he thought about it. He seemed quite content with the life that he’d built, if a little fearful that it might disappear on him.

Harry finished rinsing the conditioner out and stopped the water, reaching for a towel. Why was he still thinking about this? It was irrelevant. He wasn’t gay. It didn’t matter whether Snape was handsome and nice, or not. He could be an ugly bastard and still be a good friend, and that’s what they were. It really didn’t have to be that big of a deal.

He’d know if he was gay, because Draco was the most gorgeous man ever to grace the surface of the Earth, and Harry had felt nothing but panic and fear in contact with him. They’d kissed - or rather, Draco had kissed him - and thinking back on it only made him uncomfortable and vaguely nauseous.

So he wasn’t gay, and he had a new friend in Severus Snape, and everything was okay.

And maybe he did need a rail for getting in and out of the bathtub, and that could be okay too. Everything could be all right, so long as he stopped making such a big deal of it all.

He dried off and got dressed, then tidied up the mess he’d left in the hall outside the cupboard (by throwing it all back inside). He made a cup of tea without milk, since he had none, and sat down calmly to drink it. There. See? Not all that difficult.

…

He didn’t want to have _sex_ with Snape. He knew that. It was a fact. That was exactly the way people worked out if they wanted to be in a relationship with someone, right? It just had to be a person you could cope being next to for long periods of time, who you were sexually attracted to. Harry wasn’t sexually attracted to _anyone_ , and he’d tried doing a relationship without it and it hadn’t worked out. So that was that.

Besides, he was making a massive assumption that Snape was even interested, which he wasn’t. And neither was Harry. He was just- getting confused, or something. He’d been alone for a long time, and now his brain was getting carried away after a bit of attention.

He tried to imagine it, just to make sure. He didn’t even get as far as sexual intercourse because he was so put off by just the idea of being naked next to another naked person, regardless of their identity. He thought of Ginny just to make sure, and came up with the same mild revulsion. Maybe a different woman, some muggle celebrity from a magazine. He couldn’t think of anyone he felt even the smallest amount of interest in smooshing genitalia with.

Sighing, he sipped his tea. It was too bitter without milk, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He contemplated the rim of his mug, gently pressing the warm china to his lower lip. What about kissing? He’d always been fine with kissing, before.

The nose would get in the way. They’d have to tilt their heads like… He turned his head to the side and up. Then there were the thin lips and the crooked teeth, some of which looked sharp enough to cut. He wouldn’t want to put his tongue in there. Oh god, Snape had a _tongue_. Harry felt his face heat, and gulped down more tea as a distraction.

He couldn’t kiss Snape. He just had such an unattractive face, and the logistics were impossible to imagine, between that nose and those teeth. How would it even work? It was one of those things you couldn’t work out until you did it, he supposed, and then took that thought back again. The whole purpose of this was to _disprove_ that he liked Snape, so that he wouldn’t need to try anything like that.

They’d become reacquainted less than a week ago, and this feeling had come on far too quickly to be anything real. Harry was just a sad middle-aged man who was putting his even sadder feelings on the nearest thing that seemed capable of holding them, like hanging a saggy old coat on the hook nearest to the door.

This wasn’t doing him any good. He needed to get outside. A bit of fresh air and a dose of reality would clear him up well enough and put an end to all this nonsense.

He headed for the front door, but when he got there he found that it wouldn’t budge. Frowning, he locked and unlocked it then tried again. Maybe the mechanism had rusted from disuse, since he usually went out the back. He leaned down to look closer at the gap between door and frame, turning the handle to see if the bolt was moving. It was all just dark and he couldn’t tell. In fact, it almost looked like-

“Fucking hell!” He leapt back as a pair of hairy black legs as long and thick as pencils poked out from the gap, just below where he’d been looking. As he watched, another set of legs popped out and before he knew it, the door was _swarming_ with big black spiders. He took another few steps backwards, holding his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. It’s your door, I get it. I’ll never touch it again, okay? My mistake, just uh, carry on. With whatever you were doing.”

He kept moving back until he was sure they wouldn’t follow, and then turned and fled to the back door instead. Jesus Christ. A shiver ran through him. Never mind a plumber, he should call an exterminator. Or burn the house to the ground and start again from scratch, that seemed reasonable.

At least he knew what prank to pull on Ron if his friend ever pissed him off - _oh, I’m having work done round the back so you’ll need to come in the front door mate_. Not that he invited people over.

Even knowing that he’d opened it just yesterday, he carefully studied the back door before daring to put his hand on the knob. It swung open easily, revealing an overgrown mess of a garden. It had what might have once been a raised flower bed down at the end, and a single metal chair and table stood in the middle of the knee-high grass between the door and back wall. A well-worn path ran along the back of the house to a side gate he used when popping to the shops.

He hadn’t stepped into the garden in a while. Back during the divorce, he’d come out here to drink almost every day. It was summer, and the weather had been clear enough that he could sit outside until ten or eleven at night before getting too cold. Hell, he’d sometimes gotten so pissed that he couldn’t get up and ended up sleeping in the chair, waking up the next morning covered in dew. As if summoned by the thought, his foot hit something that tinked, and he looked down to see the grass littered with old bottles and cans. Dozens of them lay in piles, and he grimaced - no matter how bad he was now, at least he knew it was an improvement on his past self. He tended to forget that. Some of the bottles had smashed, so he stepped carefully on his way to the chair before sitting down heavily, rubbing his stinging thigh.

It was cold today, nothing at all like that glorious, horrible summer.

He leaned back and looked up at the sky, like he’d done so many times before. It was overcast, mild and grey. Just an average British autumn evening. The sun already looked close to setting, so he got out his wand for a tempus. Five o’clock. There was still at least another five hours until he could reasonably contemplate going to bed, and he knew without a doubt that he’d end up filling at least part of it with drinking. What else was there?

He didn’t have any hobbies, nor books he wanted to read. He didn’t own a television, and had nothing he wanted to do or make otherwise. He supposed he could go to a real shop, get some vegetables in so that he could pretend to himself that he had the intention of cooking. He’d grown up making simple things like fried breakfast and bolognaise, and he’d enjoyed cooking in the evenings after auror training in his twenties.

Yeah. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He’d go and grab some ingredients, see if he could remember how to cook something, maybe a linguine. He’d have to clean the fridge of course, but that would be easy with magic.

He rose to go find a coat in the house, and just as he reached the door, a streak of black squeezed past him into the kitchen. For a frightening moment he thought it was a flying spider, but then it let out a loud hoot. Midnight.

He couldn’t help the little flip in his stomach as he saw her standing on the table. There was a fist-sized parcel sitting beside her. He tried to think of a treat he could reward her with, but he hadn’t been shopping yet. He took out a tin of spaghetti and opened it, holding it out. She looked at him like he was insane, and he grimaced. “Yeah, me neither,” he said, casting reparo on the can and putting it away again. He gave her a few strokes with the back of his fingers instead, which she seemed content with.

As soon as he sat down, she hopped onto his arm and started walking her way up to his shoulder. Like owl, like owner.

He unwrapped the package. It was some kind of wooden box with an open top and a wooden ball inside. There was no lid for it. He turned it over, expecting the ball to fall out into his hand but it stayed in the box. Frowning, he poked at it. It disappeared with a _bwooorp!_ sound, similar to the noise inside a bubblehead charm when it popped. He dropped the box and shook the brown paper it had come inside. A letter fell onto the table, and he snatched it up and opened it. Merlin, what if he’d broken it before even checking what it was?

_Miserable Old Git,_

_Apologies for the lateness of this letter, but it took me a while to find this. It was made by an old friend for another purpose, but might serve us well. Please excuse the presumption if you see no reason for its use, and feel free to send it back with Midnight. She will wait._

_It would be inconvenient and slow to communicate via owl post, considering that I collect mine only twice a week unless it comes via my own owl. It is also a long way for her to fly to London and back with any frequency. Hence the need for another way to communicate when I am available to receive guests, and when I might expect you._

_I have long called this the ballbox, however there is no official title for it as it is a one-of-a-kind item. With that in mind, please take care not to break it. There are two boxes, one in my possession and one in yours. The ball travels back and forth between them simply by pushing it from one side or the other. You can recall it by squeezing the sides of the box where I have indicated in the below diagram, unless I have locked the ball from my end._

_My proposal is this:_

_When I am home, I will send the ball to your box. If you would like to visit then you simply need to push the ball with a thumb to send it back to me. It makes a distinctive noise so I will most certainly notice, and open the floo to allow entry using the phrase you used previously. If you change your mind or become busy, simply recall the ball. I will do the same._

_Again, I apologise for the presumption that you would like to return. Do not take it as an obligation._

_Kindly Yours,_ _  
_ _Other Miserable Old Git._

Harry quickly squeezed the sides of the box to recall the ball, and it bworp’d back into place. Hopefully Snape had expected Harry to experiment with it a few times, and not read the accompanying letter before playing about with a new toy.

He accio’d a piece of parchment and quill from the living room.

_Other Miserable Old Git,_

_I decided to have a clear out of the house so I’m a bit busy this evening, but the box is a great idea. Thanks for understanding and working with me not being able to travel by other means. Hopefully I’ll be able to use portkeys again in a few days anyway._

_Thank you also for being such a gracious host. I had a good time._

_Kindest,_ _  
_ _This Miserable Old Git._

He folded it with care and gave it to Midnight, then walked to the door to watch her take off.

He looked down at the box in his hand, wondering if he should have gone over tonight. He wanted to. It was tempting just to push the ball in with his thumb right now and head to the floo before Snape received the letter saying he was busy. But no, he wasn’t ready for it. He knew that if he went there now, they’d just end up the same way as before, and who knew what his currently treacherous mind would have him thinking then?

It was safer to stay away until he knew what he was about. He grabbed a coat and left through the gate in the garden, heading towards the Co-op a few streets away. He kept to the basics: onions, peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes, carrots, broccoli and celery. If nothing else, he could make a pasta sauce with a good French base. Ah, right. He’d need pasta for that. He picked up a bag, as well as some tomato paste and a few glass jars of herbs. He decided on fresh basil rather than dried though.

He had every intention of walking past the wine without stopping. Really he did, but then he thought he might need some for a sauce base. It was safest to get one of each, red and white, just in case. After some mulling, he decided on a Merlot and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. It was almost the season for mulled wine. Did Snape make things like that, or did he stick to beer?

He queued for the human checkouts, ignoring the flashing lights of the self-service, and paid in cash. When he got home, he unpacked the two shopping bags onto the table and then got himself a glass to try the Merlot. Muggle wine was cheap, but still good enough for cooking or mulling in his opinion. This one had some kind of gold award on the neck so he supposed it couldn’t be all that bad.

He sat and poured himself a glass, drank it slowly, then poured another. His leg hurt after all the walking and moving, and the thought of standing to cook appealed less and less as he progressed steadily through the bottle.

His tolerance wasn’t so small that a single bottle of wine had him out of sensibility, though he was definitely unstable, and he had plenty of mental faculty going spare to know how shit he was being.

Even on a good day, a fine day when he had slept enough and not gotten horribly drunk the night before, when he had showered and cleaned out the house and gone grocery shopping - and admittedly not eaten anything all day - he had still ended up staring into an empty bottle at the end of the evening.

Could he change, if he wanted to? Wasn’t today one of those turnaround days when he could have chosen that? If not today, then when?

After half an hour of staring and feeling shit, the fuck-it moment arrived and he opened the second bottle. He’d already ruined today, so what was one more drink now? He told himself that he could spend all day tomorrow sober, but knew it wasn’t true.

He left the vegetables in their bags on the dining table as he shuffled upstairs to bed two hours later. The room was too bright, too loud, too cold and he was just shit enough to deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's trying~ _sobs_ Sometimes I shock myself with the depressing shizzle I write xD


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here is an interlude of some plot :3

“-and I really think it would be beneficial to the case, if we could just _understand_ how the spell works.”

Harry rubbed his temples. Zantia had been petitioning him for almost twenty minutes about why he should let her swan off to Hogwarts for a few days to try and work out how transiciation worked. It would have been a good idea last week, but Harry had the feeling that things were going to come to a head soon and he really needed his best auror on site doing real work, not sitting in Minerva’s office learning a new spell.

“I want to help you, I do,” he said tiredly. “I’m just not sure we can spare you right now. They stole my bike, and Herm- ah, the Minister for Magic is using this case to push through the new equalities bill. We both know it’s a really delicate time. If they’re planning on striking big, now’s the time. I can’t spare you for three days, and definitely not five.”

“That’s why it’s even more important to know how it works,” Zantia pleaded, eyes and hands wide. “How big an object can be stolen? How small? What types of materials? Do they get damaged or changed in the process? Could transiciation be used to kidnap a person? A building full of people? What if the Wizengamot meets to discuss the new bill, and the Minister for Magic disappears right in the middle of her big speech. Is that possible, is that the plan? We have no idea!”

Harry held in a sigh. A building full of people would be a bit of a disaster but totally unlikely, and anyway his gut was telling him this was personal. The stolen items were too weird, and too few clues had been left behind. It was targeted at someone, just one person who linked everything together. His gut told him this would all end in a small showdown with that one target, so they needed to work out who it was. Everything would make sense as soon as they knew. That’s how they’d solve this - through human understanding of motives and mistakes. Not through reading some really old books. “I appreciate how useful it would be to know the limitations of the spell, but it’s the limitations of the wizard that are more concerning to me. Are you sure you can add more value to the investigation with a few days of solo research, than in the same time working with the rest of the team?” He rubbed the corner of his eye, trying to think of a delicate way of asking an indelicate question. “I guess what I’m asking is... Is this something that you want to do for the case, or something you’re doing for yourself because _you_ want to know?”

God, he hated having to ask. She was good at her job, and a good person generally, but she was also ambitious and single-minded. Once she had a goal in mind, she wouldn’t bend at all until she met it, even after seeing that there was no point. It would be just like her to set aside six weeks learning to swim for a holiday, find out that she was going to the desert but carry on with the swimming lessons anyway - simply because she had set her heart on learning.

“That’s not-“ she began, and then stopped herself. She looked down at her hands with a slight frown and then back up again. “Fine… Look, the headmistress is going to retire from teaching transfiguration, finally, to concentrate on her other duties next year. She’s looking for an assistant to help out, then take over the position fully in September. It’s the first time a teaching position at Hogwarts has come up for a decade, and _in my specialism_. If I don’t get it now, who knows how long I’ll have to wait again?”

“You want to _teach_?” Harry asked, astounded. He’d worked with Zantia for years and she’d never once mentioned it. Why had she become an auror, if what she wanted was to teach? “Since when?”

She shrugged. “Since always - and this is my one chance. If I can master transiciation, then Minerva will just have to take me on. I could be teaching first years by January, ready to take on the full role in the new school year. Please, Harry. This might be my only chance. I heard that _Monsieur Dupartneau_ has applied. Dupartneau! I’ll never be considered alongside him, without solid proof that I’m better.”

Oh, to be young. Every opportunity was your _one chance_ when you lacked the experience to know how many more there would be. She looked serious though, even more so than usual. She really did believe that it was her one and only shot at fulfilling her apparently long-standing dream of becoming a transfiguration teacher. Shaping all the young minds or whatever. “Alright,” he sighed, after forcing her to suffer through an appropriately long, tense silence. “But there are conditions. Maximum three days, and if you manage it earlier then you come back earlier. If I need you back, you come back no questions or complaints, no matter how close you think you are. You find anything out, I’m the first to know.”

He paused here, then added, “But only the relevant stuff. I don’t need to be the first to know that a three millimetre diameter twist in concrete means twelve point two one grams of matter distributed a mile and a half. I mean audiovisual and behavioural clues. Is there a flash of light, a sound? Is it ritualistic in nature, can it be cast nonverbally or on the move? And while you’re there, see if you notice if anyone else has shown an interest in the topic recently. Maybe someone came through before you asking questions, or they took out all the same library books as you last year.”

Zantia gripped the edge of the table with both hands as if she might be blown away by a gust if she dared to let go.

“I’ll need some verbal confirmation on those conditions, auror.” Harry said. He could see in her eyes that she was ready to do whatever it took. Bloody terrifying, conviction like that, and he didn’t have an ounce of it in himself.

She gushed assurances and thanks, and Harry followed along but his mind was elsewhere. He’d assumed that Zantia wanted _his_ job, that she’d rise up and take it and he’d retire or become a full-time drunken recluse. But her dream was something else entirely.

At least this might win him some time to get his life back together. They could hardly fire him without preparing a replacement first, so if Zantia managed to get this post - which he had no doubt she would, transiciation or no - then he wouldn’t have to worry about getting fired for a while longer. He had time to get his shit together and actually have a life worth living.

He frowned at that thought. Was… was this job part of that ‘ _life worth living’_? He hadn’t even considered the possibility that it wasn’t, until now - at least, not seriously. He was an auror. It was part of his identity. Sure, he didn’t have some great drive or love for it but the idea of being anything else was as foreign to him as suddenly deciding to have brown eyes instead of green. It was a part of him - Harry Potter, shit auror.

Even Zantia who was interested and driven by the work, had decided what would really make her happy was something totally different. Did he need to make a change too, in order to be happy? Was he even capable of being happy?

Merlin. It seemed like feelings were following him everywhere he went, since he’d let some of them out at Snape’s the other night.

Did he need to be thinking about this right now? As if he didn’t have enough going on in his head already, he hardly needed to be making more drama.

“Are you okay, sir?” Zantia asked, startling him from his thoughts.

He didn’t hide his frown. “I’m fine. Gather everyone, I’ll come out for a roundup in five minutes.”

He was able to leave his cane behind as he walked out of his office thanks to a pain reliever, though he still thumped heavily on his bad leg. Sometimes he still thought of himself as a powerful strider, an efficient-glide kinda guy, and it hit him extra hard to find himself hobbling about like an old man. He hated what people saw when they looked at him - probably because it was the truth, and there was nothing he disliked more than the truth when it came to his own faults. Today at least, he was glad not to need the cane.

“Alright, I know we’ve had a tough week and I haven’t exactly been the most lovely person to deal with, but I hope we’ll get this over with soon,” he said after reaching his gaggle of aurors. They stood roughly in a line, split by DeRoble’s desk in the middle. He wasn’t well enough to stand unnecessarily for half an hour, but he could hardly sit while they were all standing either. He leaned against Tina’s desk for support, taking just enough of the strain off his leg that it didn’t hurt badly to stand. “I’m going back to basics, birds eye view. The thefts started off simple enough for a locked-room-mystery type deal, but things have now escalated beyond what we had initially imagined. We’re very much in the public eye on this one, and the bugger knows it too. Probably wants to use the attention for something, but we don’t have a motive yet so whatever it is, we’re going to be six steps behind. Catching up is our top priority.”

He slipped his wand out of his sleeve and conjured floating images of the stolen items. “We have four thefts, and our main lead follows the theme of sexuality.” He pointed to each image in turn, “The painting’s current owner is in segregation in Azkaban for sexual assault of his male inmates. The pot belonged to a gay ex-minister for magic, and the necklace… Ah, has links as well.”

Mosser covered a snigger with a cough and a hand over his mouth. Harry continued more forcefully, “And my bike was stolen after I spoke to the press about protecting members of the LGBT community. We’re currently working on the assumption that our thief is homophobic, but can’t rule out the possibility that it’s all some ill-conceived publicity stunt to raise awareness about injustice. Either way, I’m sure we’re nearing the endgame. Which makes it extra important that we make all the links we can. There has to be something more we’re missing to help identify the next target.”

Harry flicked his wand and the images grew, fleshing out to three dimensions. “So what have these items all got in common?”

Dowell half raised a hand, and with a joking grin said, “Well they’re all green, sir. Now that you put them together like that.”

DeRobles gestured, “The bike is black, mate.”

“Only from afar,” Dowell countered. “If you’re up real close, it’s actually a very deep green.”

“How close did you get to the bloody thing? I’ve seen it from three feet and I’m telling you it’s black,” DeRobles said.

Harry put his hands up. “It doesn’t matter what colour my bloody bike is, they’re not stealing things just because they like the colour of them.”

“But it _is_ green,” Dowell said. “And it could be relevant. We’re looking for an extra message, well maybe that’s it.”

Harry did stop to contemplate, but rolled his eyes first. Who would the colour be relevant to? It was true that two of the thefts so far had Slitherin links. Was it a message to the ultimate target, _you’re next_ ? Another Slitherin, perhaps. Or was it a deliberate clue to show that the _perpetrator_ was linked to the colour? It wasn’t like any of the suspects were called Emerald Greene.

It did seem like a stretch to assume that the colour of the items was deliberate, but then all four items being green was quite the coincidence as well. And it would explain why the thief had taken the painting of a cow in a field, rather than one of the more valuable ones from the vault. “Okay,” he said carefully. “As loath as I am to consider it, I suppose it’s worth a shot. We’ve exhausted the route of finding other impossible thefts so far, so maybe there are more which weren’t so impossible. Dowell, you can look into historic cases, see if you can find us more than these four items.”

If someone was targeting gay Slitherins, at least Harry could rest knowing that no one but him knew where Snape lived.

“Have we cross-referenced the lists?”

DeRobles nodded and unrolled three pieces of parchment on his desk table. One was significantly longer than the other two. “We have three lists - museum visitors from the last year, Malfoy’s suspects, and ministry workers who saw where the bike was parked. There’s no one on all three, but we have several suspects on two lists.” He produced a fourth parchment from his robe, and passed it to Harry. It listed those suspects. “There was a ministry outing to the museum last year so four of the individuals from the garage have been there recently. None of them knew about the necklace though.”

Not so far as Malfoy’s _first_ list said, anyway. He’d as good as said that there were aurors who at least knew about the safe, if not the necklace - and it wasn’t outside the realm of probability that the troublemakers at the top of Malfoy’s list had squealed about it to some of Briggs’ aurors while under arrest either.

“The only person outside of the ministry who is on multiple lists is the ex-death-eater Severus Snape. He’s visited the museum twice a year on the same dates for as long as the records go back, and was aware of the necklace’s location,” DeRobles continued. “But he had no way of knowing where the bike was.”

“Because he’s blind,” Harry added dismissively. Snape couldn’t possibly be the culprit - but he could be the target. Harry rubbed his jaw. The wizard was gay, linked to the colour green if being Slitherin counted, and to other individuals who had been targeted so far. He was also quite high up on the list of people the public hated, who weren’t in Azkaban or dead. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense, and he felt a rising urge to check in on his newfound friend.

Harry’s hand went unconsciously to the box in his pocket. The ball wasn’t there, so Snape was out of the house. What if he was in trouble? How would Harry know?

“I don’t like the idea of investigating our fellow aurors,” Tina said, cutting into his thoughts. “We’re all on the same side, why would one of our own do something like this?”

“Same reasons as anyone else,” Zantia answered. “I’ve seen as many dickheads in our ranks as outside, that’s for sure.” She wasn’t _quite_ looking at Mosser as she said it, but it got his back up anyway.

“I don’t care who they are, no preferential treatment,” Harry told them sternly, mostly to prevent Mosser from reacting. “I want full background checks on every ministry worker here, as deep as we would look into anyone else. I’m talking full life histories, anyone who’d have a reason to hate gay wizards. Where they went to school, who their friends and enemies were, any groups or clubs they’ve joined, suspicious activity and convictions. Considering we’re talking aurors here, look for other signs of corruption. Accusations swept under the rug, disciplinaries or warnings. If any of them or their colleagues have stepped so much as a toe out of line, I want to know about it.”

DeRobles nodded.

 _Sorry Hermione_ , Harry thought. She’d asked him to stay out of it, but now it was part of his case and he could hardly be expected to ignore the vast majority of his suspects.

“Ah, actually-” Mosser stepped forwards. “I know Snape’s blind and everything, and I didn’t want to bring it up before because he wasn’t a suspect, but what you just said reminded me. About reasons to hate… uh, people. While I was investigating the suspects on Malfoy’s list the day after we got it, I found out that Tobias Snape - Severus’s father - was a muggle clergyman who was convicted of grooming and sexual assault against multiple teenage boys under his care. He went to prison for it, which was unusual for the time.”

Well, shit. As if Snape’s life hadn’t been difficult enough from what Harry already knew, to grow up with a father like that...

“So he might have a motive for crimes against homosexuals, if his father abus-”

“No,” Harry said, cutting across Auror Dowell. “Severus Snape is _not_ a suspect.”

They all looked at him, surprised. “We have to explore all possibilities, sir.” Zantia protested. “He was a death eater.”

“He’s been blind for fifteen years. How could he have cast a spell requiring visualisation of objects he couldn’t see? A spell which he couldn’t possibly have researched to begin with, owing to the fact that he is - wait for it - _blind_ ,” Harry argued, surprising even himself with the vehemence in his own voice. He forced it to a calmer volume. “Besides, I spoke to him just a few days ago, and I can guarantee that he harbours no ill will to the gay community.”

“You did say we can’t assume that’s the motive,” Dowell replied, also uncharacteristically heated. “And we don’t have any reason to think that it’s one person working alone yet, either. He could have been casing the joints for someone else, or orchestrating the thefts behind the scenes.”

Harry sighed in frustration. Since when had Dowell gotten so good at logical arguments? “Look, I just know it isn’t him, alright? Let’s drop this and do some real work.”

When he got back to his desk, he found a memo sitting on the pile of post he still hadn’t managed to sort through. His first thought was to wonder how Hermione had found out so fast about his investigation, but he unfolded the plane to find a note from Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office. Harry’s boss, basically, though he left most of the department heads to their own business and was more involved with Hermione’s side of things than Harry’s.

Half expecting a notice of redundancy, Harry was relieved to read a reminder for the department heads quarterly meeting this afternoon. Then his mood soured, realising he’d have to play nice with Auror Briggs for two hours.

He dawdled for the next hour. As bad as it was when everyone else was ramping up to accommodate Zantia’s absence, he spent more time checking the ballbox than working.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t thinking about the case. He’d received the date for the Wizengamot vote on the new Equality Bill. It was being rushed through for Friday afternoon, just four days from now. Once this was announced publicly, it would surely push the thief to make plans for that day. Plans that hopefully had been intended for later, so that they’d rush and make mistakes.

Half an hour before the meeting, he hobbled down to the 12th basement bathroom, his regular haunt since he never saw anyone else using it, and cleaned himself up. He wasn’t as much of a mess as he had been in days prior, but it wouldn’t do to meet Robards without brushing his hair first. He brushed his teeth as well for good measure, and then splashed cold water on his face and checked that he didn’t smell in general.

He reached for a pain reliever before realising that he wasn’t actually in pain. At least, no more than usual. That was a turn out for the books. After some consideration, he decided that he was probably going to be in pain soon anyway, and he wouldn’t be able to pop out any potions during the meeting so it’d be best to take one in advance.

He took a lift up to the meeting room, blinking in the brightness of the above-ground floors. He arrived a few minutes early, nodding to a couple of the other department heads as he entered the room. Briggs wasn’t here yet, so he took the time to grab a cup of tea from the metal canister in the corner and stand staring out of the large oval window. London stretched into the distance, grey and miserable. He watched its veins, fancied he saw a bit of himself in the landscape. Maybe it was the bleakness. All the grey concrete walls and crumbling old bricks. Even the shiny mirrored towers, to an extent.

“Beautiful city, isn’t she Auror Potter?”

Harry turned to find Robards standing beside him. He looked like he meant his words, so Harry nodded in reply. He’d never particularly liked urban areas, perhaps because he’d felt so out of place growing up in Little Whinging, and subsequently so at home on a remote mountainside in Scotland. He tried to think of something to say, but the two of them had never really gotten close. Robards had become Head of Auror Office during the second war when Scrimgeour rose to Minister for Magic, and was now the longest running wizard in history to hold that title. He and Harry had always treated each other with careful cordial respect. He supposed the man might have had some concerns in the past that Harry would one day take his position, but that couldn’t be further from reality these days and everyone knew it.

Still, he should say something at least.

“Gawain!”

He turned a second time to see Auror Briggs approaching them, a warm smile on his face. He put an arm around Robards’ shoulder, pulling him close like an old friend. Harry put his hands behind his back so no one could see them balled into tight fists. Since he was holding a mug in one of said fists, he managed to spill hot tea down the back of his right leg. The nails of his other hand bit into his palm, and he managed to shove a weak smile onto his face, even if it twitched a bit on one side.

“Addison, I hope you’re well?” Robards replied in an equally friendly manner, though his smile was slightly stiffer. Harry glanced between them, wondering if the man knew about Hermione’s investigation. He must do, as head of office. Unless he was one of the individuals being investigated, of course.

No, he couldn’t go thinking that. Robards was the best of the best. He hadn’t kept his position for so long without reason, after all. Everyone liked him - even Harry. Then again, he certainly was quite chummy with Briggs. First name basis, and everything.

“Potter, long time no see,” Briggs said with an open smile, holding out a hand for shaking as if he had nothing to hide or worry about. Oh, he was good alright. He was bloody perfect, terrifyingly so. And what right did he have to own such a handsome, disarming grin? Where did a wizard even go about getting teeth as shiny and straight as that? There was nothing whatsoever in his demeanor or looks that said _I secretly get my aurors to beat up suspects for funsies._

Harry took the offered hand, mirroring his smile as best he could. The man had a grip like steel. Crushing steel. Harry smiled wider to cover a grimace, and they locked eyes for a long moment. Did Briggs know he knew?

A bead of sweat tickled the back of his neck as he compelled his hand to keep still. He refused to let anyone see him shake or back down, no matter how much he was reeling inside. Could Briggs feel his thundering heartbeat through their joined hands? His grin was wide, but his eyes were worse. The eyes showed that he knew all of the ways in which he surpassed Harry. In strength, in intellect and in charisma, he was superior. He knew it - and so did Harry.

Robards coughed, startling them both into letting go. He saw that others in the room were staring at them.

“Best get started, eh?” Robards said, walking between the two of them and breaking the tension. He sat down at the head of the table, and Harry waited for Briggs to sit before taking the second-furthest seat from him.

Once he was sure that no one was looking, he put down his cup of tea and laid his hands flat on the tops of his legs. They were shaking. Fuck. _Fuck._

Nothing unusual came up during the meeting, mostly budget concerns and reports. Tina had written up their department statistics as usual, so Harry just had to read them out. He was surprised to find that his team’s performance had improved this quarter, though he kept his tone neutral, acting as if he’d obviously known this ahead of time. No one needed to know that he didn’t care much for performance metrics. They could be misleading anyway - just because your arrest rate was higher, it didn’t mean you were arresting the right people. Or treating them well, either.

He did his best not to look at Auror Briggs except when the man was speaking. Anger and shame churned inside him, slowly burning through his patience. The gall that man had, to sit here at this table, to talk about eradicating crime and injustice after the things he’d done…

Finally, two hours and ten minutes later, it was over. Harry wanted nothing more than to rush off with an excuse about the case, but half of being a department head was managing the subtle politics of management so he hung around and made polite conversation. Davran Banshee, who despite her name and appearances was not a banshee, was always a lark to talk with, telling wild tales of fighting this or that creature. He wanted to believe her, and supposed it didn’t really matter if she spoke the truth or if she exaggerated a bit. Her department mostly dealt with abandoned crups and the like, so if she wanted to have a bit of fun then why not indulge her.

He should really ask her about the spiders in his house, now that it came to it. Couldn’t be normal to have that many living in the doorframe...

He couldn’t concentrate today though, so he wandered over to Lee from taxes instead, who was leaning against a wall without even pretending to have any desire for chit-chat. The man was known for speaking not a single word more than was absolutely necessary, which made him perfect company. “Auror Zhang,” he greeted with a bow of the head, which was returned silently. They stood side by side in lovely, awkward silence for a few minutes, watching the others mill about and converse.

“Harry Potter,” Lee said, surprising Harry and apparently himself too, by the expression on his face. His voice was heavily accented. “I would like to thank you for your kind words.”

Harry smiled automatically, not sure what the man was talking about. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation with Auror Zhang. Maybe two years ago? Their departments had worked together on a case involving an auctioneer stealing his own goods to commit fraud. They must have spoken at some point then, though Harry had been going through a bit of a rough patch so he couldn’t have said anything worth thanks. “Oh, um. No problem.” They lapsed into silence again, while Harry continued to trawl his memories for the meaning behind Lee’s words. Hadn’t they been in a lift together a few weeks ago?

Some of the others started to disperse, so he figured that he’d stayed long enough. He gave Lee a second shallow bow and walked to where Robards was parting ways with the Head of Sports Regulations. It wouldn’t do for him to leave without saying goodbye to his boss first.

“Ah, on your way out, Auror Potter?” The head of office asked once his company was gone. He offered a hand for shaking, and pulled Harry in close when he took it. “A bit of advice, boy,” Robards whispered, taking Harry off guard with his hard tone. “If you want to play with the big sharks then you should learn to swim first. Keep your little paddle board games in the shallow pool, and let us grown ups chase blood, hm?” Robards patted him on the shoulder.

Harry stepped back, frowning, but the man only gave him another pleasant smile before turning away to speak to Auror Banshee.

What the hell? Whose blood was Robards chasing? Was he warning Harry away from Briggs, or from Hermione’s investigation? And why did everyone have to go speaking in riddles and metaphors all the time? What would have been so wrong with saying “Hey Harry I noticed you looking a bit angry with Briggs there, don’t worry I have everything in hand so you just carry on with your good work in the Theft and Burglary Department”?

He stalked out of the room, frowning, and made it about halfway to the lifts before the next unpleasant surprise hit him - or rather yanked him by the collar into a small memo-writing alcove. Before he could catch his balance, he was shoved roughly into a wall. What was with everyone and pushing him against walls lately?

He wheezed as the air was pushed out of his lungs, and blinked up to see Auror Briggs staring down at him, forearm pressed into Harry’s chest. The man who supposedly never got his own hands dirty - of _course_ he’d make an exception for Harry. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, Harry, so I’m going to give you a chance,” he said, his conversational tone belayed by the force in his arm. “You’re a good guy, you want to protect people and I respect that. I really do. I only want you to have a long hard think about what kinds of people actually need and deserve that protection.”

Harry opened his mouth to say that he had no idea what Briggs was talking about, but the taller man shoved the air out of him again and he just gasped instead.

“You make a pretty speech, protecting the weak and all that, but you have no idea what men like that are capa-”

 _Bwooorp_.

Auror Briggs’ eyes narrowed and he shoved Harry a third time. “Whatever you think you know, you don’t know the half of it, _Auror_ Potter,” he growled before letting go of Harry’s collar and storming out, as suddenly as he’d appeared.

What the hell? Harry inhaled a lungful of air, holding a hand to his chest.

Briggs had recognised the sound of the ballbox, he was sure. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes. He’d heard the noise and for some unfathomable reason it had spooked him enough that he’d let Harry go before he could even get started with whatever threats he’d been about to make.

Harry took out the ballbox and stared at it in dumb confusion. The ball was back inside, and he felt the knot of worry in his stomach ease a little knowing that Snape was safe at home again. God, what was he doing making bloody friends? As if he hadn’t been terrified enough of losing the ones he had. It was going to be Bobbi all over again.

He slid down the wall, this time totally unable to stop himself from shaking, and cast a notice-me-not charm on the alcove. He’d gotten himself into some scrapes in the past, seen off any number of enemies bigger and stronger than he was, but he wasn’t the same person he used to be, and he didn’t have the same support either. Ron and Hermione had made it abundantly clear how much they valued his ‘help’, he couldn’t know which aurors were trustworthy and even Gawain Robards himself had gone out of his way to threaten him.

This was it. It had taken a few years, but he’d succeeded in pushing his friends away and making sure that everyone else knew how useless and broken he was. Hadn’t that been the goal, in a weird, twisted way? No one was going to let him down, no one was going to die on him, no one was going to turn their backs. No one was going to make him hurt like that ever again.

So why, if he had succeeded, did it hurt so bloody much?


	13. Chapter 12

Harry ignored common sense and took a portkey to Biddersea. It was absolutely tipping it down, but he had no desire to run so he was dripping wet when he stepped into The Globe. Dai made a fuss of fetching a towel, wrapping Harry up in the gigantic thing and pretty much walking him to the table he shared with Snape, but the git wasn’t there.

“You’re early, but he’ll be in any minute now, mark my words. Like clockwork, come rain or shine,” Dai reassured him, then frowned slightly at the lack of a response. Harry already knew - the ballbox had bworped again ten minutes ago to say that Snape was out. “You alright? I’ll get you a cuppa, warm you up a bit.”

It seemed like only seconds later that he returned with a cup of tea, guiding Harry’s hand to it as if he were Snape, and murmuring a warning that it was hot. Harry smiled at him, raising his eyebrows. “Have you known him a long while?”

Dai shrugged. “A two-year or so, first totally blind person I ever met. You know most blind folk are partially sighted, or can see bright lights, blurry shapes, things like that? This guy, nada.” He made a cutting gesture with his hand. “I was debating renovating this part of the pub a few months back, and then I thought - old Reg would never find his way around again. Better not, eh?”

“I’m sure he’d cope,” Harry replied honestly, but Dai waved him off and hurried back to the bar as one of the locals shouted for service. Did Snape realise the good friends he’d made here? They could never know anything about him, of course, but they cared and looked out for him. Harry quelled the spike of jealousy rising in his chest. All he’d done since the war was lose people. God, he was melancholy today.

At one minute past four, he saw Snape approaching. He walked slowly, probably a show for the muggles, but carried his own drink. He made a great, slow ceremony of putting the glass down and maneuvering into the space between table and pew, then flattened the wrinkles in his dark woollen jumper. Once he was settled, he said: “This booth is taken.”

Harry almost laughed. Snape really was something, to lodge himself so slowly and purposefully into a space and then eject whoever else had happened to be there first. “I hope you won’t mind a little company,” Harry replied.

Snape relaxed visibly, tense shoulders dropping, but frowned. “I had thought-” His hand went to a coat pocket, and Harry could see the shape of something square through the waterproof fabric.

Was he carrying the box around with him? That was surprisingly sweet, especially from a man like Snape. Harry’d thought he might keep it in his house somewhere, since he’d only have need of it when he was home. Then again, Harry had been checking  _ his _ ballbox obsessively all afternoon, and he didn’t feel like that was sweet at all. “I just fancied meeting you here instead. Maybe I could walk you home later?”

“You simply wanted to get a head start,” the potioneer replied, waving a hand towards where Harry’s pint might have been if he wasn’t drinking tea.

“You caught me.”

Harry expected them to fall into the usual comfortable silence, but Snape was in an uncharacteristically chatty mood, grumbling about how a temperature gauge on one of his fermentation tanks had stopped working, and he’d spent the best part of three hours attempting to fix it by feel.

“Couldn’t you have cast reparo?” Harry asked carefully, not wanting to make the man feel stupid.

Snape huffed. “Of course, however could I have forgotten about the fixing charm. Thank goodness you were here to remind me.” When Harry failed to reply, Snape sighed again and felt along the table until he found the cutlery pot, pulling out a fork. With two hands and a grimace, he bent it at the neck and then set it down on the table between them. “Close your eyes and fix that, would you?”

Feeling a right prat, Harry dutifully closed his eyes, then opened them again to make sure he’d remembered where the fork was correctly, and closed them a second time. Then he took out his wand, checked again, screwed his eyes shut and said “Reparo”.

“How does it look?” Snape asked after a second.

“The same,” Harry said with a frown. “I think I missed.” He picked up the still-bent fork and held it while enunciating the spell, just to make sure. When he opened his eyes, the fork was still not straight. “Huh.”

“You would be surprised at how many spells require visual aid. So long as you are looking at and focusing hard on the object, your wand could be pointed behind your back and it would still find its way to fixing the fork. However, if you cannot see the fork then your wand could be touching the metal and nothing at all will happen.” Snape explained.

“What if I just visualise the fork in my head?” Harry asked.

“Perhaps,” Snape replied. “I wouldn’t know, as even the mind's eye is lost to me. I lack the ability to either imagine or remember what something might look like.”

Wow, that was quite the curse.

Harry tried it, screwing his eyes shut again and tapping his wand to the metal. He envisaged a straight-necked fork in his hand and cast the spell. Nothing. “The problem is,” he said “it might be that visualisation works and I’m just really bad at it,” he said.

“You were abysmal at Legilimency,” Snape agreed. “In any case, I am relegated to fixing things the muggle way. Doubly difficult, since lack of sight hardly aids in that regard either. Not to mention the fact that I must add my own haptic modifications to every piece of equipment I purchase.”

“They don’t sell brewing equipment for the blind, then?”

“No, but I do,” Snape said, taking a sip of his whiskey. Harry remembered to finish off his tea before it got unpleasantly cold. “Although I couldn’t admit to having more than two returning customers, and both of them muggles. It hardly seems worth my time.”

“I’m sure it’s worth it for them,” Harry assured him. “I’m going to get another drink. You still good?”

Snape tilted his glass to show Harry that he’d barely touched it, so he went to the bar and asked for another cup of tea. “I’ve got work tomorrow, and I think they’re a bit fed up with my hangovers,” he told Dai. In reality, he was too scared to get drunk until Snape was safely back at home. He was half expecting the man to disappear in front of his very eyes.

“Can’t say as I have that problem, myself.” Dai joked, ducking into the back room Harry now guessed was the kitchen. He returned with a fresh steaming cup and refused to take Harry’s money for it.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry said as he thumped back into his bench opposite Snape. Funny how quickly it had become  _ his _ bench. “You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”

“No.”

Harry looked up, surprised. “No I can’t ask?”

“The answer to your question is no,” Snape answered evenly.

“And what question is that?”

“The same question every straight man asks upon befriending a gay one.  _ Is he trying to get in my pants _ ?”

Oh. Harry scrambled to cover his surprise. He couldn’t read anything in the man’s expression. “That’s- not what I was going to ask, but good to know regardless.” So Snape didn’t fancy him, huh? He’d known as much - and even if he hadn’t, he could have guessed from the repulsion Draco had shown at the prospect of Harry. He was hardly in his prime any more, just a washed up post-heroic loser. He instinctively went to gulp his drink, remembering a second too late that it was boiling hot, and choked on the heat in his mouth.

Luckily, he didn’t want Snape in his pants either, so they were agreed. Neither of them was attracted to the other. Exactly as he wanted it.

He glanced surreptitiously at Snape, then remembered he didn’t need to be subtle and looked over him properly. Yeah, he was fairly certain he wasn’t attracted to him, at least not sexually. He could see more points in the man’s favour now than he had a few days ago, but even so there was no running away from the fact that Snape was not handsome. Still, he had a comfortable, dignified air around him; a certain gravity that pulled attention.

“Ah… What was your question, then?” Snape lifted his glass in front of his face as he spoke, and Harry grinned when he saw embarrassment reddening his cheeks behind it.

“I dunno, maybe I want to talk more about your question now,” he teased. “Been asked often?”

“Alas, I have disappointed many with my answer,” Snape replied, lowering his glass. “Would you care for some chips?”

Harry accepted the change of topic gracefully and they ordered a portion to share, along with another whiskey for Snape. They kept their feet to themselves. It felt weird being in a pub and not drinking, but it was also… refreshing. He’d promised himself last night that he wouldn’t drink today, without actually believing he could do it. He still didn’t. Something was going to happen, and he’d go to the same remedy he always did. It was nice for now, though.

As they fell into silence, his mind meandered back to the day he’d come here to escape from. He felt utterly inadequate sitting opposite possibly the bravest man in wizarding Britain, after how scared he was of Briggs.

He sat back, appetite lost all of a sudden, and watched Snape finish off the food instead. He looked so normal, so at ease in his surroundings. Severus Snape, eating chips in the pub in a remote British seaside town. But Harry could see him as something else: a potential target. Slitherin; past Death Eater; gay man. Hell, he wasn’t even on the edge of those identities. Previous Head of Slitherin House. Part of the inner circle of death eaters during both wars, double spy for Voldemort and The Order. And - well, he supposed there weren’t gradients of gay, but if there were Snape would probably be right up one end. He was nothing if not a man of extremes.

He was the ultimate target for Harry’s thief, which meant he should really be sat somewhere safe and protected until everything blew over. If Harry had thought it even remotely possible to convince the man to stay at the Ministry or in Harry’s house for the time, he would have tried.

“You’ve gone quiet on me,” Snape said. “I can’t imagine that being a good sign.”

“I’m still here,” Harry replied, reaching a hand over to cover Snape’s in response to the unspoken fear. “How about we head back to yours? I’ll walk you home, as promised.” He stood up without waiting for an answer, pulling Snape up with him.

It was starting to get dark when they stepped outside, but at least the rain had stopped. He waited for Snape to adjust his seeing spell.

There were plenty of orange street lamps in the village so the first five minutes of their journey were well lit, but that ended with the last house. Vague shadows stretched out into the eerie countryside. “I guess walking home in the dark isn’t any extra bother for you, huh?” Harry asked as they stepped out of the last lamp’s glow. He cast lumos silently, bathing them both in white light. The spell lit up a thousand white specs in Snape’s black eyes, making him look even more alien than usual.

“Quite the contrary, I imagine it would be quite inconvenient to get run over by a vehicle,” Snape countered. “But I have ears, and sound carries far out here. Do you hear that?”

Harry listened. A gust of wind carried a faint engine roar, but the sound was too quiet to tell from which direction it came. Snape pointed to their right and spoke in a slow, measured voice. “Two miles East, it’s on a road that approaches town from the other side. If it were headed in this direction then it would arrive here in five minutes’ time, however I do believe that it’s travelling out towards the downs and is thus of no concern to us.”

Harry could see a distant spot of light moving across the horizon, now that it was pointed out to him.

“Did you know that your voice changes when you’re talking to an idiot?”

Snape smiled, showing teeth for the first time, but his tone stayed slow and neutral. “If that were true, then you would never have heard me speak differently.” He pushed his hair back with a hand, something else Harry had never seen him do, and he realised that the man had no idea that Harry could see him.

“Good thing the moon’s out tonight,” Harry said, thinking quickly. “I think I can just about make out the road, but with your dark clothes I can’t see you at all.” That should stop the wizard from getting suspicious of Harry’s ability to walk in darkness, while allowing him to continue his observance of this rarest of creatures - a Snape who didn’t know anyone was looking.

Said rare creature tilted his head up as if searching for the moon, and Harry panicked that he might be able to tell it was hidden behind the clouds. “I miss the night sky,” Snape admitted. “I used to be something of a hobbyist, you know. I don’t suppose I shall ever see a meteor shower again.”

Harry turned away. It was one thing to see Snape grinning, but something else entirely to watch an expression so open and vulnerable as that.

“Can you see the stars?” Snape asked, drawing Harry’s eyes to him again.

He didn’t think before answering. “Yes.” He’d been looking in the wrong place though. “I mean, just a couple. It’s cloudy.” At least that was the truth. He was absolutely  _ not _ going to tell Snape about the stars that shone in his eyes. It sounded like a line from some awful teenage romance book. God, why was his brain still stuck on this? Snape had given him an answer.

Not that there was anything  _ to _ answer, because it had never been under consideration in the first place. Harry put a hand to his head, rubbing his temple hard as if that might restart his brain. God, this was all so much easier when he was drunk.

They crossed the road at the same t-junction as they had on the day Harry got his bike, and the shadows around them deepened. Harry’s leg was starting to throb from the long walk, so he took another pain reliever. Merlin, they were a godsend. Barrod Road was narrow and bordered by a bank and hedge on either side. Snape walked down the middle of it since there was no pavement, and Harry thought he was quite the hypocrite for making him wear a helmet.

“Do you dream?” Harry asked - it was the question he’d meant to ask back at the pub. “Since you can’t visualise things, can you dream?”

“No,” Snape answered. “But that is not something I miss.”

Harry nodded. He couldn’t imagine Snape had many nice things to dream about. “How do you know when you wake up, if it’s just the same darkness either way?”

Snape shrugged uncomfortably. “How do you know that  _ you _ are awake at this very moment? The house is just a little further.” Taking the hint, Harry didn’t say anything else for the next ten minutes.

The house seemed to pop up out of nowhere. It wasn’t as big as he’d imagined, just a small bungalow that didn’t look like it had an upstairs. It had felt bigger when he was inside, infinitely bigger, though he had no way of knowing if the space was magically distorted. The garden was overgrown with weeds and vines, reminding Harry of his own yard, and only a single path between the gate and the front door was clear of mess. Harry doused his light and reached out for Snape’s arm. “Why have we stopped? Are we there?”

“I’ve not brought a guest home before. Try not to tip over any plant pots on the way,” Snape answered.

Harry hadn’t seen any pots, just an overgrown mess, but he obviously couldn’t mention that. “I’ll just have to follow your lead then, won’t I?” He said, tightening his grip on Snape’s arm.

They got inside without incident, and Snape walked him to what felt like the same sofa as before. Since he wasn’t sleep-deprived or drunk this time, Harry didn’t get the irrational thoughts or panic of his previous visit. Just a normal level of fear, and a huge sense of relief that Snape was finally safe at home. It helped that he’d seen the house from the outside now - it wasn’t a cave or a dungeon, and there were no monsters out to get him.

“Would you care for a drink before you head home?” Snape asked.

Right. He had to head home tonight. It wasn’t like he’d been expecting to stay over, forcing Snape to sleep on the uncomfortable sofa for a second time at his age. A sit down would be nice though - even with the pain reliever, his injured leg didn’t like being forced to walk long distances like that. “Sure, just the one.”

He could have one. It would probably be fine. He was almost certain there was no alcohol left in his house at this point, so if he stayed for one and then went home, there was no way he’d end up drinking more afterwards.

He just had to be sensible.

“Shit, it’s nice to sit,” he said, leaning back into the cushions. His hand moved to his pocket automatically to grab a pain reliever, though he wasn’t sure why since he’d just taken one. It was a nervous habit at this point, he supposed. He let it be.

Snape returned with drinks, making Harry leap as a glass was suddenly pressed into his chest. “Merlin, you’re like some bloody ninja,” he accused, grabbing it quickly before Snape let go and covered him in whiskey.

“Thank you, I think.”

Harry waited for the cushions to move, signifying that Snape had sat down, before sliding up next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, his elbow leaning over the back of the sofa. The other wizard put his hand on Harry’s, curling their fingers together.

He wanted so much to cast lumos and see what Snape’s face looked like at that moment. Instead, he sat and sipped his drink as slowly as he could - because once it was done, he’d have to go home.

“I don’t see my dreams,” Snape said minutes later. “But I hear them. I know when I’m awake because of the silence.”

“What do you hear when you’re sleeping?” Harry asked, then clamped his mouth shut. This was personal stuff, not the kind of topic Severus Snape would chat to him about. Or that he really wanted to know about someone else. He could sense it, that kind of pensive silence that emanates from a person when they’re thinking about something terrible.

Snape pulled Harry’s hand down to his lap, palm up and fingers still entwined. “Screams,” he said quietly. “Pleading. Curses... But for the most part, I hear spells. I hadn’t thought about the sound a spell makes when it leaves a wand until fifteen years ago. Some are obvious: incendio; bombarda; aguamenti. You can easily recall the sound of fire and flowing water, but do you remember what the cruciatus curse sounds like?”

Harry tried to formulate an answer, but Snape ploughed on without waiting. “Not the human sound, not the voices of the caster or the victim. The rush of air and magic between  _ crucio _ and screaming, that’s what I hear when I sleep.”

Shiiit. What could he say to that?

He had to say  _ something _ . He felt the seconds ticking away as he tried to think of an adequate reply.

“I… I don’t often remember my dreams,” he began. It was only fair to trade personal words for the same. “I used to, but when I get pissed I think I just don’t dream. It makes me wonder what’ll happen when I stop.”

“Perhaps a few nightmares would be an acceptable price for sobriety,” Snape suggested.

Harry wasn’t so certain. Between Voldemort, Bobbi and the infinite amount of shit he’d seen as an auror in the last thirteen years, he was expecting some pretty horrific scenes. After so long without nightmares, thinking about inflicting them on himself again was a daunting prospect. He didn’t want to tell Snape that though; he’d already said more than he was comfortable with.

Time to change the subject again. “You know, you’re not actually that much of a git after all, Snape.”

“I knew it!” Snape said accusingly, poking Harry in the ribs with his spare hand. “You call me by my surname.”

Damn, he’d been avoiding calling Snape anything at all. He was really on the ball with sniffing out all the topics Harry wanted to avoid today, wasn’t he? “Well, you call me Potter don’t you?” Harry retorted, and tried to pull his hand out of Snape’s, but he held on tight. Was there anyone on the bloody planet who wasn’t stronger than him?

“How about a trade, then? I’ll call you Harry, and you call me Severus.”

God, he didn’t want that. It was bad enough being asked to call Snape by his first name, but having the man call him Harry as well only made it worse. “Can’t we just call each other Git?” He tried.

“Three syllables too many for you?” Snape asked, with an audible smile. So weird to know when he was smiling, without having to see. Even weirder that he was smiling to begin with. “Your mother used to call me Sev when we were children, if you’d prefer.”

Harry tried not to groan. That was worse again, and Snape knew it. “Can’t we stick with Potter and Snape? It’s-”  _ safe _ “-just what I’ve always called you. What we’ve always called each other.”

“If we are to be friends, then you can’t call me by my surname.”

“Think of it as a nickname,” Harry countered. “It has a history attached to it.”

Snape stilled. “There is nothing good in the history of Snape, believe me.” His voice had taken on a chilly air the likes of which Harry hadn’t heard since school. Was he trying to make a point?  _ Treat me like the professor you knew, and I’ll treat you like a child? _

“Do you mean Tobias?” Harry asked, because he’d evidently already pissed him off so it couldn’t get much worse.

Snape’s hand tightened around Harry’s. “I meant  _ me _ ,” he answered. “But what do you know of my father?” Oof, he’d gone past chilly and was now positively frozen. So much for  _ couldn’t get much worse _ .

“I know what he did, what he went to prison for. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It just came up in the investigation.” He put a second hand on Snape’s in an attempt to appease him, but then he realised his most recent mistake.

“You’ve been  _ investigating _ me?” He was quickly approaching zero kelvin.

Fuckity shit. “No,” Harry said quickly. “No, I haven’t. You came up on Draco’s list of suspects, and one of my aurors decided to look into it without my knowledge, but I put him straight as soon as I found out. You’re not a suspect and we’re not investigating you. It was just a mistake.”

Snape didn’t answer.

“Maybe I could call you something new entirely?” Harry suggested lightly, trying to pull them back into safer territory. “I don’t know, what about Alan?  _ Marvin _ ?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Snape answered sullenly, and Harry dropped his head onto the man’s shoulder in relief that he was still talking. “There’s no need to rile me up for a reaction. You may continue to call me Snape if you wish, as it seems to have no negative connotations for you.”

“It really doesn’t,” Harry assured him, though it was half a lie. The word Snape meant torturous detentions, unfairness and a vile temperament to an entire generation of wizarding Britain. And that was being optimistic. Harry didn’t see the man like that any longer, though. Quite the opposite. “Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t think highly of you? Snape’s basically another word for strong, in my head.”

Merlin, now he didn’t want to use that name either. He decided to shut up so he couldn’t annoy or embarrass either of them again. At least they were back in safe territory now.

But apparently Snape had other plans. “And what does Potter mean to you?”

Harry sat back, moving away. “Nothing much,” he answered.

“I read the papers, or rather listen to them. I know what they say about you. Harry Potter the failure, couldn’t hold on to his wife for working too hard, and barely holding on to his job for the drinki-”

“Stop.” Harry wrenched his hand free and stood up, almost tripping over something on the floor. “You don’t need to tell me who Harry Potter is, I’m right here. You think the papers know better than I do? They’d have a fucking field day if they knew the half of it, so don’t you dare-”

“Harry-” He felt something touch his arm, and stepped back. He knocked into a table, heard glass bottles rattling.  _ This fucking room _ , he thought. The darkness made it impossible for him to storm off in a huff.

“Would you kindly escort me to the fireplace?” He asked instead, teeth clenching around the words. This was supposed to be the place he could get away from the outside. Snape was supposed to be the person, the one person who didn’t treat him like the total and utter miserable failure that he was. But of course Snape knew the truth, he wasn’t an idiot. Harry had been willingly fooling himself that it wasn’t the case.

Snape must have stood up, because there were hands on his shoulders, turning him. “Harry, I’m sorry. I went too far, you needn’t leave.”

Harry tried to shrug off the hands, then pushed them away with his forearms, but Snape just gripped his wrists instead. “Don’t call me that, and yes I do. I want to.”

“I’ll call you Potter,” Snape said, holding him at arms’ length. “And you can call me Snape. I had no intention of offending you, I was merely trying to show that I understand how names can grow negative associations over time. I made the assumption that Potter was that name for you, probably because of my own history with it. I was wrong. I’m sorry, so please sit down.”

“I want to go home,” Harry replied, but even to his own ears he sounded defeated and tired. He didn’t want to go home, to that big empty house full of spiders where he’d just drink himself into a stupor again, but he didn’t want to be here either. He wanted to be nowhere, out of existence, away from being himself.

“I know you do,” Snape said gently. “But I fear that if you leave now, you might not return. We should talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Harry said. “I’m not… that kind of person. I don’t talk about things.”

“Alright,” Snape agreed. “Are you the type of person who sits down quietly in the dark until he falls asleep, then? I think I could be that person too, if you’d like. Just… stay.”

Harry sighed, and with it his anger and energy left him. Snape guided him back into the sofa, where he collapsed and put his head in his hands. “I don’t understand you,” he said. Why was Snape being so…  _ Ugh _ . He wasn’t supposed to be like this. “You’re not a bastard at all.”

“Would you storm off again if I were to make a joke about your mental capacity being insufficient to understand the workings of my far superior mind?” Snape asked, and the cushions pushed Harry up as the other wizard sat next to him. Their knees touched, but otherwise they were separate. He was keeping his distance, as if Harry was some animal he was trying not to scare off. “As for the latter, don’t spread it around. I have a reputation to upkeep.”

They finally slipped into the promised silence.

Harry’s brain wouldn’t shut up though. He was such a dickhead, a fucking nosy idiot. Failing, he could cope with. Failing at marriage, at sex, at work. He could fail - hell he’d failed all through school and still managed to kill Voldemort in the end. The issue wasn’t with the things he did. It was with what he was, who he had become on the back of those failures.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, seeding purple splodges in his vision. What would he have done if Briggs hadn’t left the alcove of his own accord? What would old Harry have done? Thrown out a few sarcastic remarks, probably followed the lead auror and tried to find out what was going on. He’d have gone to his friends with what he knew and they’d have worked it out together. But he’d done none of that. He’d stood there and let Briggs hold him against a wall-

No, let was too generous a word. He couldn’t have escaped if he’d tried. He hadn’t  _ let _ Briggs do anything, because that implied he had the power to stop him. He couldn’t even escape Snape’s grip when he tried, a man twenty years his senior who wasn’t even an auror. He was fucking weak.

“I don’t see you as a failure,” Snape said, cutting across his thoughts.

Of course he’d say that now. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it anymore,” Harry grumbled. He was barely hovering on this side of finding Snape’s liquor cabinet to drown in, and the man just  _ had _ to keep poking at him.

“Consider it my last word on the subject, then. I wanted to clarify that I was quoting the views of the public, not my own.”

Harry kept his lips tight. The last words were spoken, he didn’t need to know anything else. He felt a headache coming on, and took a pain reliever out of his pocket. Inexplicably, his fingers were shaking. It could have been the portkey or the long walk, the fact that he’d only eaten a few chips, or maybe stress or alcohol withdrawal. No, not the last. As much as he worried about his drinking habits, he didn’t consider himself _an_ _alcoholic_. He went most of every day without drinking. It wasn’t like that.

He twisted the cork out of the bottle and downed the potion, despite the fact he’d already taken one in the last half hour. The familiarity of it helped to settle his mood, and he leaned back into the sofa, dropping the empty bottle on the cushion beside him. After a while, he felt almost normal.

“Go on then, I’ll bite,” he said, staring up at the invisible ceiling. “What are your personal views on Harry Potter?”

“He thinks himself terribly old,” Snape replied instantly, as if he’d been preparing the answer in his head. “But he doesn’t know what the word means. He believes himself to be defined by his admittedly numerous fuck-ups. He compares himself to others and always finds himself lacking, and most importantly he is afraid. Very, very afraid.”

“You seem to know a lot about what’s in someone else’s head,” Harry said. “What’s he so afraid of, then?”

“Oh, many things. Almost everything, in fact.”  _ Well, thanks. _ “He is afraid of both failure and success. He is afraid of being in the limelight, and of being alone and forgotten. He is afraid of being vulnerable to others, and of caring about them. He’s afraid of losing the people he loves, afraid of losing their love, afraid of loving them or himself.” His voice was a low drone, calm and deliberate and factual. “He’s afraid of remembering - and dreaming - but he’s also afraid of forgetting. He runs away from these fears, but he’s afraid that one day he’ll run so far, dig so deep, drink so much that he stops being afraid, because that means he will have stopped caring, and caring is all he has left.”

Harry wiped at his eyes, scowling at the droplets on his fingers. It wasn’t… He...

He didn’t know what to say. “You bastard,” he tried. It was better than nothing, better than bloody crying.

“Would you like to know how I know?” Snape asked, ignoring him, and Harry shook his head but it didn’t matter. “Because Harry Potter and Severus Snape are afraid of the same things. I’ve simply been doing it longer.”

“You bastard,” Harry repeated, because his mind was drawing up a blank and he couldn’t make himself think about it. “You utter bastard.”

“Yes I am,” Snape said. He turned and pulled Harry to his chest. “I’m a terrible bastard, absolutely despicable.”

Harry curled up, gripping the man’s jumper and buried his face in the soft wool. “Absolutely,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me, just doin a cry over here. Also, thanks for your lovely comments, all y'all make me smile
> 
> Also since someone asked, I do have a sequel planned but I haven't even started writing it yet, and it usually takes me at least a year to get stuff down. xD But if you like Ms Marple then...


	14. Chapter13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooOOOOooo it all starts kicking off noooow. We're also getting into less thoroughly edited territory here xD

It was quickly becoming a normal experience for Harry to wake up in the dark in Snape’s cold house, absorbing the man’s body heat.  _ Severus’s house _ , he corrected. Bloody hell. This time, he was practically in an embrace against the man’s chest. It seemed that every time he woke up with Sn- Severus, they were a little closer. He was almost scared to fall back asleep, lest they wake up naked in bed together. He was definitely averse to that.

Merlin, was he leading the man on? He definitely wasn’t angling for a shag, here.

“Awake, Potter?”

He contemplated feigning asleep, but Severus had displayed a terrifying ability to see right through him so far. “No,” he grunted instead. If he got up then he’d have to think. So long as he stayed right here, half asleep, then he didn’t have to deal with anything. He could save it all up for later when he had a bottle of something to hand.

Severus chuckled, a rich sound that vibrated against Harry’s ear. “I suppose I don’t see any evidence to the contrary, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” he replied, shuffling so that Harry was pulled more comfortably against him. The movement also resulted in a hand in Harry’s hair, thumb running absent circles over the skin behind his ear.

“Just cos I’m sleeping, you can’t put your hands wherever you like, you know” Harry grumbled, shaking his head in groggy irritation at the ticklish motion.

The hand disappeared quickly, along with most of what had been supporting him upright. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t- I wouldn’t,” Severus said quickly, pulling back further so that Harry slipped suddenly down to his lap with an  _ oof _ . “Consent is very important to me, I would never take advantage of a sleeping man.”

Harry let out a long sigh that was almost a groan, stretching his stiff back, and reached up to find Severus’ hands. He found the arms instead, since the man had apparently put his hands all the way up in the air. “Bring ‘em here,” he muttered. “It’s fine, give me your hand, I was just teasing you.” He took one of the hands as Severus lowered them into reach, and plonked it on his head. “There, I consent. Your thumb was just annoying me. And stop making me think about things, it’s too early and you know I hate thinking.”

“Yes, I imagine it must be very difficult for you to attempt.”

By the time they woke up properly and realised what time it was, Harry didn’t have time to pop home for a shower, and floo’d directly to the Ministry after a rather awkward parting handshake. He hadn’t known what to do with his hands, and it seemed like Severus had the same problem.

“Be careful today,” Harry told him before leaving. “It sounds stupid, but I can’t shake this feeling that something’s going to happen to you.” Snape argued that a  _ feeling _ wasn’t much to go on, but said that he wasn’t planning on leaving the house anyway.

Harry didn’t have another tantrum when he stepped out into the bright light of the Ministry foyer, stepping forward through the temporary blindness with a hand shadowing his eyes. Jameson had left a fresh box of post on his desk, making Harry feel guilty for not having finished going through the first yet, and once more there was a loose letter on the top.

He dropped into his chair, fished out a pain reliever and opened the letter as he drank it.

_ Potter, _

_ Here is the list you requested. The left were far more enjoyable experiences. _

The letter wasn’t signed, but as he saw the two columns of names he finally remembered that he’d asked Draco for a list of lovers from the past two years. The list was on a separate parchment, split into two columns. There were two nasty surprises - the first, that the right-hand column contained the names of three aurors from the Homicide department. The second surprise was that the first column ended with the words:   
  
_ SS. Don’t judge me. _

The others were all full names, only this one was entered by initials. Harry didn’t need to be a genius to work it out though.

Severus had had sex with Draco in the last two years. That meant his objection to Harry wasn’t about the age difference. Draco was handsome, and even if Severus couldn’t see it, he must have been able to feel it. The slim waist and toned arms, the delicate neck and long fingers. Even without visual cues, Draco was without a doubt substantially more appealing than Harry.

He looked up at a sudden knock at the door, and just as it opened the papers in his hands burst into flame. Bloody privacy charms! Least the man could have done was add a  _ P.S. This letter will self-destruct so memorise the names. _

He stood up quickly, dropping the burning parchment onto his desk, then realised there was more paper there he didn’t want set on fire. When he was done swatting at his desk, hands stinging and covered in glowing ash, he stepped back and grimaced at the figure in the doorway. “Oh, Madam Summs. What are you doing he- I mean, I was just going to organise an appointment with the specialist today.” It was an automatic lie, one he knew she saw straight through.

“No need. I’ve spoken to them on your behalf, and have brought you some stronger pain relievers,” Summs told him, stepping into the room. She looked at the ash-strewn desk with distaste for a moment before setting her potion caddy on a chair instead.

Harry gave his politest smile. “Actually, the leg hasn’t been too bad recently. I don’t think I’ll need anything stronger,” he said.

She gave him such a glare that he almost took a step backwards. “Tell me, I seem to have forgotten - which of us is the mediwitch, and which the patient?” When he didn’t answer, she put a finger to her chin. “Ah yes, I do believe that  _ I _ am the one with thirty six years of medical experience.”

_ Yeah, but it’s my bloody leg _ , Harry thought. She couldn’t tell him there was pain where he couldn’t feel it, no matter how many years she’d been a mediwitch. Besides which, he knew she was lying because he’d seen her record. She’d changed careers after a decade spent as a primary school teacher, so she only had  _ twenty _ six years as a mediwitch. She did seem the type to count the decade she’d spent diagnosing snot-nosed children with head lice as medical experience though.

She pulled a handful of vials out of her caddy and placed them in a small pile on his desk. They were round-bottomed so they didn’t stand up, not exactly standard issue, but the smaller size was perfect for pockets. They rolled about in the embers of Draco’s letter. “These are more highly concentrated than your previous lot, so they will act faster and have a stronger flavour as well. Did you say that your leg has improved?”

Harry nodded, not daring to speak lest she take offence at something else he said.

“Good. That’s proof it’s working. The stronger dose will help to prevent the pain from flaring up again, which will prevent you from limping and causing more stress on the rest of your body. Take a few each day whenever you feel like it,” she said, dropping another handful onto his desk.

He managed to catch one of the vials before it could roll off the edge of the table, and held it up to the light for inspection. “Whenever I feel like it?” he asked dubiously.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? If I told you to take them at ten past nine in the morning, two in the afternoon and a quarter to seven in the evening, would you do it?” She asked, eyebrows raised high. He knew she was right - he took them whenever he felt like it, and not always when his leg was at its worst. Bloody mediwitches, seeing right through him again. She didn’t wait for his agreement however. “No, you wouldn’t. So take them whenever you remember. You might feel a little strange for a few minutes after taking it, but that should wear off as you acclimatise to the new dose.”

“Okay,” he answered slowly, pulling out the vial’s tiny cork between his thumbnail and finger. The colour of the potion was the same, at least. “Have you changed your perfume or something?”

She gave him an appalled look as if he’d tried hitting on her, and didn’t deign to reply. He kept his mouth shut until she left, without giving him any further instructions or information. Eesh, that hadn’t gone well. It wasn’t like he’d been trying to tell her she smelled  _ bad _ , just different. Better, if anything.

He accio’d an empty box from the far corner of the room and swept all the potion vials into it to deal with later, and then went out to get an update from his team and order a quiet chat with the three aurors on Draco’s list. If Zantia were here, he’d have asked her to do it since she was the most subtle, but he supposed that Dowell would do just as well. He had all the subtlety of a Hungarian Horntail, but he had a more natural reason to talk to the aurors in homicide than the others.

He beckoned Dowell to one side. “You know Auror Burkin, right? From your old department. And Frederick Chop and Glenda Hughes?”

The auror nodded. “Uh, yeah. They’re good friends - of each other, I mean. Them and Roderick too, did you want them for something?”

Hm, Burkin and Roderick had both been on the list of people who’d gone down to the garage to see Harry’s bike. “Maybe,” he said, drawing Dowell closer for privacy. “I need you to talk to them for me, see if you can find out where they were when the items were stolen - surreptitiously, mind.”

“You want to know if they have alibis?” Dowell asked, disbelieving. “But-”

“Just a friendly catch-up, okay?” Harry said, patting the man on the arm. “If you can’t get the info, don’t worry. I’m just trying to exhaust all possibilities. See what kind of feeling you get from them.”

Harry didn’t give Dowell time to reply before turning away and clapping his hands to get the attention of everyone else. “Alright, what have we got?”

Without Zantia, someone else had to stand up and talk for once, and the group glanced at one another with meaningful shakes of the head until DeRobles finally stepped up. “We’re still going through backgrounds on the aurors, sir. There are a lot of files, but nothing’s popping up so far. They’re clean - cleaner than any of us, that’s for sure. No fines, no disciplinaries, not a single dirty spot on their records.”

“Homicide always gets the best,” Mosser grumbled.

Or someone was cleaning up after them. “Not always,” Harry answered, giving the man a significant look. That made him stand up a little straighter. “Anything else?”

“I left a note on your desk, sir,” Dowell said. “Possible connected thefts.”

Here we go. “Might have set it on fire,” Harry said with a grimace. “Tell me.”

Dowell and Mosser took it in turns to tell him about an old spate of burglaries that happened directly after the war, targeting the homes of death eaters who had just been jailed. Every single item stolen was green in colour, but otherwise held no connection to each other. Paintings, jugs, plates, potion ingredients, clothing and furniture were all included in the list of stolen items. There was even one account of a defected death eater’s daughter returning home from Hogwarts to find all of the wallpaper stripped from the living room walls.

Some went undiscovered for a long time, until the release of a suspected death eater or until the homes were taken over by relatives or the Ministry itself as it seized property from ring leaders. The thefts were never solved, but from this account, it seemed like no one tried very hard.

“It was a hectic time after the war,” Tina explained as she rifled through some of the papers on her overburdened desk. “There were very few resources to spare for thefts, but even so there’s nothing here except for the initial reports. The sites weren’t visited to confirm the missing items, and no one bothered compiling a list as the reports grew.”

“They were written off as opportunistic burglaries,” Mosser said. “No suspects, no leads.”

_ Every silver-lined cloud casts a shadow _ , Harry thought. They had a possible set of related thefts, but no new evidence along with it. “Alright, well it seems like it’s down to us to find the suspects and leads now, isn’t it? Find out who had reason to be in all of those houses. Any aurors or members of the public who had access.”

“Aurors, sir?” Tina asked.

“Yes,” he snapped. No matter how many times he said it, she just couldn’t seem to grasp the idea that not all aurors were beacons of light, hope and justice. “Aurors. I daresay anyone in the entire bloody auror office could have gotten access to death eater homes if they wanted, hm? Hectic time, as you said, and who would question it? Also check out any death eaters who were not yet caught at the time, see if any of ‘em have been released since.” He wasn’t so focussed on aurors that he couldn’t entertain the possibility of it being someone else, but the more he thought about it the less he could shake off the feeling that his office, the guardians of the Ministry, had its roots of corruption buried deep in the past.

Harry, Ron and Hermione had begun reshaping the Ministry, correcting injustices as soon as they were able, but everything they’d achieved was built on the foundation set up the day Voldemort’s influence was driven out. Only now he was finding out the foundation was made of bloody custard.

“Auror Potter, sir, if I may speak freely?” DeRobles said, and Harry nodded. He’d never had any reason to think the man didn’t already do so on a regular basis, and he had the most common sense out of any of them. “I was wondering why you’re so adamant that the thief isn’t Severus Snape, maybe in league with someone else. With this cold case, the evidence is stacked even higher against him - we know that he wasn’t caught for weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts because he was believed to be dead, and then he was released within a week of his arrest.”

Thanks in large part to Harry’s testimony, but DeRobles wisely left that unsaid. Was he trying to say that he thought Harry wasn’t being impartial to the evidence, or was he accusing him of outright trying to cover for a suspect? “I can see why you’re concerned,” Harry said slowly, weighing his words carefully. “But I know it wasn’t him - and not just because of some hunch. He has an alibi for the evening the pot was stolen.”

“Have you followed it up? He could have lied,” Dowell interjected.

“I didn’t need to follow it up,” Harry replied patiently. “Because the alibi was me. We were drinking together from the time I left the office that day until I got the note calling me back in. He couldn’t have done it. I was sitting right next to him the entire time.”

“You’ve been  _ drinking _ with the lead suspect?” Mosser said incredulously. DeRobles grimaced and Tina looked away, pushing her glasses up her nose.

Harry huffed. “He’s not the lead suspect. He’s not a suspect at all, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, not bothering to hide the frustration he felt. Why were they all so bloody intent on this? “I only met him by coincidence last week and I hadn’t spoken to him for years before that, we’re not…” Merlin, he didn’t know what they were, never mind what they weren’t. He realised they’d put him on the back foot.

Dowell looked like he was about to speak, but Auror DeRobles put out a hand to silence him, speaking in his stead. His voice was controlled and reasonable, but worried. “Sir, you know I trust your intuition, it hasn’t done us wrong before… But I ask you to look at this objectively. Don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence that someone so closely tied to the case suddenly reappears in the life of the lead auror, just as the investigation starts up?”

Well, when he put it like  _ that _ of course it sounded suspicious. Harry sighed. “I know, I know - I know how it looks, but please trust me,” he said. “You say my intuition hasn’t been wrong before, so give me the benefit of the doubt one more time. There’s things going on that you don’t - can’t - know about, political stuff. My gut is leaning in that direction, but I can’t tell you why. I can’t give you all the information I have at my disposal as head of department, but there’s more to this than any of you have clearance to know. Leading blind isn’t my style and I want to keep you informed, but just this once you’re going to have to live with it.”

They were quiet for a few moments, then DeRobles nodded. “Of course, sir.” Tina and Mosser followed suit, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. If Zantia were here, this never would have become a problem in the first place, but at least DeRobles had come back from his holiday in time or Harry might have had a mini revolt on his hands.

Still, he had to give when he took or they’d start thinking he was a tyrant. “I’ll tell you what, if we haven’t got anything better to go on by seven o’ clock Friday morning, I’ll take him into custody myself and hold him under surveillance until the Wizengamot has finished for the day, alright?” If nothing else, it would prove the man’s innocence beyond doubt if someone really did target the meeting. Severus wouldn’t like being put away for fifteen hours, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. The promise had its desired effect, as his team looked more at ease - especially Dowell, who had been particularly adamant of Severus’ guilt from the beginning, and had the least reason to blindly trust Harry.

He asked Tina to check in with Zantia at Hogwarts, make sure she wasn’t getting too distracted, then they all scattered to do their jobs. Harry shut himself into his office and sat down heavily in his chair. Those bloody- he put his head in his hands and pulled at his hair to stop a frustrated scream from escaping. He could really do without a coup on top of everything else. And now he had to find evidence enough to convince them by Friday, or really piss off Severus. Evidence which Hermione would probably want kept secret until she was done with her own investigation.

He loved his team, as much as he could love anything. They were great, they worked well together most of the time, and they had a diverse range of skills between them. But they really wound him up, especially when Zantia wasn’t around to soak up their grievances for him. What would happen if she got the teaching position? He’d have to actually do his job. That was a scary thought.

He decided to get some real food at lunchtime for once, if only to escape his subordinates, and took a portkey to Brighton on a whim. It was a blustery day and none of the fish and chips shops along the seafront were open - out of tourist season, he guessed - so he wandered into town and found a quiet cafe to sit down in and order something to eat.

The cheese and bacon toastie warmed his hands nicely, and tasted amazing. Not amazing in the gourmet sense, but in that really satisfying greasy way. Just your everyday comforting rubbish. He washed it down with a cup of milky tea and looked around. There were only a few other people in - an elderly lady sitting on her own, a young couple on their phones and a man on one of those… What were they called, laptops? He had a headset on, and was talking business to someone Harry couldn’t see. Like firecalling. It had gotten to the point where muggles could easily do a lot of things that had been considered impossible except by magic even ten or twenty years ago. It might be time wizards got caught up on all this new technology malarkey.

God, he was going to end up like Arthur Weasley, wasn’t he? Puttering about with old computers, coming to all the wrong conclusions about how they worked and sounding like a real idiot to anyone who genuinely knew what they were doing.

Once his tea was finished and his mug had gone cold, he stretched his arms up and then stood to leave - and was instantly shoved sideways.

He shouted in surprise as he fell, clattering over the top of a chair and then falling a second time to the floor. His leg, only recently recovered from his run-in with the clerk at Gringotts, flared up in sudden pain. He breathed in through clenched teeth, screwing his eyes shut.

“Oh god, oh my god. I’m so sorry, god. Are you okay? I’m sorry.”

He turned to look up at the voice, saw the young couple from the next table standing nearby. The girl leaned forward as if to help him, but then she touched her tall boyfriend’s arm instead. “Marcin, help him up would you? I’m  _ so _ sorry, I just slid back my chair and I didn’t know you were there and-”

Marcin took a hold of Harry’s hand and pulled him up easily, but Harry wasn’t ready for the strength or speed of it and his leg buckled. “Fuck, sorry,” he said as the boyfriend lowered him more gently into his chair. “I didn’t look either.” Harry gripped his thigh in both hands.

“God, you’re hurt. I’m sorry, I should have-” The girl began again, but Harry cut her off with a raised hand.

“It wasn’t you. Old injury, don’t worry about it.” God damn it, just as he was starting to feel better walking about. He’d have to steal another cane just to get back to the office. That thought almost made him laugh.  _ Serial cane thief on the loose _ , he could imagine getting that case assigned to him by a knowing Robards.

“Ana, he says is ok. Is ok.” The boyfriend said, his English rough and clipped. Polish, if Harry was any judge of accent.

Harry gave them his most reassuring smile. “It is, don’t worry. Happens all the time, why don’t you two go and enjoy the rest of your day, don’t let this old man hold you up.”

“You are not so old,” Marcin said with a grin, patting Harry’s shoulder with a broad, heavy hand. It was good, in a strange way, to have even a brief conversation with someone who didn’t know who he was.

Harry waited until they’d been gone for four minutes before getting up again, this time after having a good look around first. He hobbled downstairs and out onto the street, then made the short trip back to the portkey. He had a pain reliever in his pocket, but he’d not transferred the newer ones into his cloak and he didn’t know if he could mix and match. Since he was going to take one anyway, it might as well be the stronger one even if he had to wait a few minutes for it.

Mosser gave him a questioning look as he walked past the man’s desk, and Harry grumbled an explanation. “Got mowed down by a muggle who didn’t look where she was bloody going, got some new pain relievers from Summs this morning but left them in the office.” 

His leg was truly giving him some grief by the time he got to his desk, and he regretted not taking one of his normal pain relievers at the cafe. What was done was done though, and he was curious to try out his new potion.

He fished one out of the cardboard box he’d dumped them in, opened the small vial and tipped its contents into his mouth. It tasted bitter and powdery, like chewing on paracetamol, but the flavour passed quickly.

The pain faded just as quickly, washed away with a very pleasant tingle, and he was left staring at the empty vial, impressed. 

He could feel it working around his body, getting rid of aches he hadn’t even known were there, and after a minute there was a… How could he describe it? Brightness. There was a brightness to the room, more than usual, which he supposed was what Summs had told him would take some getting used to. He waited patiently in his chair for a few minutes more until it passed. The room faded slowly to its normal saturation, aided by periodic bursts of impatient blinking.

After that, he was able to continue with his work pain-free, although he was finding it hard to concentrate on one thing at a time. Everything seemed to be pulling at his notice. Regardless, it felt really good to finally be in a mood where he could get stuff done - he hadn’t realised how much of his constant lethargy came from chronic pain.

He got through both boxes of letters on his desk, even going so far as to actually reply to some of them before gleefully binning the lot. He spent twenty minutes writing a letter to Minerva while he was at it, a glowing reference for Zantia. Goodness knew he couldn’t afford to lose her, but  _ someone _ deserved to be happy in all this mess.

Dowell didn’t report back on his conversations so at around five Harry peeked out into the desk hall to check if he was about, but Tina said that he’d gone for drinks with some old friends. Good man. Harry made a joke, but instantly forgot what it was he’d said, and Tina asked if he was alright. He flashed her a grin. “Of course. Finally feel like we’re getting somewhere,” he answered, then closed the door again.

He stayed late looking back over the case so far, trying to find something he’d missed. Some new angle, but it was all just as jumbled as before. He took another pain reliever at around seven in the evening, as his leg started hurting again and he was beginning to feel sluggish, and would have carried on working if not for a sudden and insistent feeling that he should check on Severus. He took out his ballbox and pressed the ball in. It made the characteristic  _ blorp _ sound, making Harry wonder again why Briggs had reacted to it so badly before. Then he shook the thought from his head and all but skipped his way to the floo. For some incredible reason, he felt  _ great _ .


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there's more plot coming, but in the meantime who wants more romantic suuub plooooooot~~~~~ :D

Harry optimistically tried to get to the sofa by himself as soon as he was through the floo, managing to topple something over with a loud crash. It didn’t sound like anything smashed, but Severus was there in a moment.

“You impatient imbecile, you oaf! That’s sixteenth century oak,” the man hissed, followed by a heavy clunking sound and then a few quieter scrapes. Setting whatever it was straight, probably. The man sighed loudly. “I’m sorry, but could you please- Potter!”

Harry knocked over something else, smaller, as he felt his way along a low table. Severus caught up with him, gripping his arms and holding him still before he could knock over anything else. “Would you please  _ stay where I put you _ ,” Severus said, impatience growing. He was starting to sound like the old angry Snape of Hogwarts. “Are you drunk?”

Harry laughed. “No,” he said. “Perfectly sober, just… I don’t know… Is this what feeling happy is like? I feel really great, you know?”

“Alright then, Mister Happy, let’s get you to the sofa before you decide to gleefully burn my house to the ground,” Severus replied, and by his tone he was clearly not convinced that Harry wasn’t pissed. Why was it that on one of the only days Harry managed to stay sober, he was assumed to be drunk anyway? He might as well not have bothered.

Then again, he felt amazing and that was surely reason enough. He’d had only one drink yesterday and nothing today. He’d always assumed that being sober would make him even more miserable, but if this was what sobriety was like, then holy shit he would sign up to it for the rest of his life. No wonder everyone thought him a miserable git, if they all went about their days feeling like this.

Severus pulled him away from the table and guided him to the sofa, where they both sat. Harry, feeling restless, went through several positions before settling on lying along the length of the sofa with his head in Severus’ lap.

He realised that they hadn’t yet exchanged greetings. “Hello,” he said. “I was thinking of you today.”

“Were you, now?” Severus replied, but for some reason he sounded quite unamused. “And you’re quite certain you haven’t been drinking?”

Harry sighed. Of course. It was tragic. Poor Severus had no reason at all to think that anyone would be happy to see him, because he’d spent all of his life being a mean old bastard to everyone he knew, and now he had no friends and was probably terribly lonely, but there was nothing to be done about it because quite frankly is was all fully deserved. He opened his mouth to say so, but that wasn’t what came out. It was like his brain was running on a different loop to his mouth. “Not a single drop. Only things I’ve had all day are tea and my pain reliever. New recipe, it’s fucking great. Look, I can poke my leg and nothing, not a bit of pain.” Harry poked his leg a few times to demonstrate, before remembering that neither of them could see.

Severus didn’t reply for a million heartbeats, and Harry could almost hear the man thinking.  _ Ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-tick _ , all the little wheels in his brain. Harry reached up a hand to try and find where Severus’ head might be, but then the man spoke again and Harry blinked, pulling his hand back. “Do you think you could spare a vial of your new pain reliever for me, Potter?” Severus said slowly. “You know I have an interest in such things, and I would very much like to study it.”

Harry waited for a long moment, more for the pretense of consideration, before digging in his robes for a vial. He had six on him, secreted in different pockets, which he supposed was overkill. “Here,” he said, holding it up in the air. Severus found his elbows and felt his way up to the hands. Harry made him work for the vial, twisting his fingers around as the man tried to open up his hands.

Severus won, obviously. He was so strong. Always so strong. Harry sighed.

“I’m just going to make you a calming cup of tea, alright?” Severus said, tipping Harry’s head onto the sofa as he got up. “You seem a little… You are behaving in an unusual manner, even for you. Please refrain from moving until I return, I would not like to have to cast a binding on you.”

Harry lay very still, feet up on the arm of the sofa, and held his breath until Severus got back. He listened very carefully so that he’d know, since the man was so sneaky and quiet. “Don’t sit on my head,” he said when he heard dull footsteps approaching, and gasped the biggest breath he’d ever breathed in all his life.

“You might consider removing your head from my seat then,” Severus replied calmly. So calm, always calm. Strong and calm, that was Severus.

Harry rolled up to a sitting position. “Ok it’s safe,” he said, then tried to lie back down again once Severus was back, but the wizard pushed him away, back into an upright position.

“Here, tea. It should calm you.”

Harry protested that he didn’t need any calming down, but Severus pushed the tea into his hands and it was nice and warm. He gingerly took a sip, hoping it wasn’t so hot that it would burn his tongue. It was just the right temperature, despite the fact that it had only just been made, so he gulped down the rest.

The result was the same as the beer. It washed over his skin, and he fell back against the sofa cushions. 

“Shit, that’s strong stuff,” he gasped. There’d been a coiled spring stuck in his neck, bouncing his brain around like a package carried by one of the Weasleys’ owls, and now the tension was slowly easing up. His thoughts slowed, and he sat quietly for a few minutes, letting the calm feeling penetrate. Then he remembered that Severus was here, and tried for an explanation: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. Had this stupid idea to go sober on the weekend, and I’m just all over the place.”

It was quite pathetic, really. He couldn’t even function like a normal human being without drinking.

“You’re quite certain you’re aware of no other reason for your behaviour?” Severus asked, and Harry rankled at his tone. It sounded awfully like the man didn’t believe him.

“I haven’t been drinking,” he insisted. “I had that one glass with you yesterday, otherwise nada. Nothing since Sunday. Longest I’ve gone in bloody years, alright?” Nevermind that it was only Tuesday.

“I believe you, Potter,” Severus said placatingly. “How do you feel now?”

Harry leaned back into the cushions. “Okay, I guess. Maybe a bit sleepy. Did you drug me?”

Severus barked an incredulous laugh, taking Harry by surprise. It was the first time he’d heard Severus laugh in such a loud way. “Yes, I did. A calming draught, but you needn’t be concerned with me. If I were you, I should be worried about whoever else may be doing the same.”

Harry scowled. “Like who?”

“How would I know?” Severus snapped, then carried on more calmly. “Your erratic behaviour is hardly conclusive proof, considering that it’s quite your ordinary state of being. Perhaps it is as you say, that your naturally idiotic personality is reasserting itself without the dampener of daily alcohol abuse.”

Harry nudged him. “Why’re you being such a dick all of a sudden?” he said, perhaps unwisely.

Severus didn’t explode on him though. If anything it was the opposite, his voice quiet but strained. “I am merely concerned for your welfare.”

“So you get all ratchety when you’re worried?” Harry slid into his now customary position leaning against Severus’ shoulder, and the man accommodated him by turning a little and putting his arm around Harry’s shoulder. It was so strange, the things you could get used to.

There was no reply forthcoming, so Harry raised a hand to where Severus’ one lay on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Well, I’ve been worried about you too. I feel like this case is expanding out of my control, and there hasn’t been another theft in days so I think the next one will be something big.”

“And why should that concern me?” Severus asked.

“You’re gay,” Harry said. “And the targets have mostly had death eater or Slitherin links so far, and all the items were green.”

Severus stiffened at that last. “Green?” he asked.

“I know,” Harry sighed, and smoothed his fingers over the back of Severus’ hand. “I would have thought it a coincidence, except now we’ve found a bunch of historic cases from just after the war that were never investigated and it’s only making me more worried that you might be a target.”

“Harry-”

“I know, I know. You’re safe, no one knows where you live, but…” Harry stopped, let go of Severus to rub his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Yes, but-”

“You’re not a suspect, at least not to me. I can’t talk about it anymore, okay?” Harry turned his head in towards the man’s chest. “I’ll get in trouble.”

Severus sat stiffly for a few minutes, and then it slowly drained out of him with a long, controlled sigh.

“I’m going to analyse the pain reliever to see if it contains any suspicious substances,” Severus said after another long while. “It would comfort me greatly if you would stop using it in the meantime.”

Harry looked incredulously at the darkness of Severus’ chest. “You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I am, quite.”

The man was insane. Harry finally had a potion that actually worked, that made the pain go away and let him actually focus on work for once, and the very same day Severus asked him not to take it? He knew it was unfair, but he couldn’t help but think that Severus was letting his own misery get in the way of Harry’s recovery. “If you weren’t aware, I do kind of need it so that I can do things like, I don’t know, walk around?”

“Surely you can use your old potion for a day.” Severus countered. “Do you not trust me?”

Harry butted Severus’ shoulder. “Of course I do. Just… It came from St Mungos, from the same mediwitch as usual. Don’t you think you’re being a bit… Paranoid?”

“ _ Paranoid? _ ” Oh shit, that was the wrong button to press.

“No, no. I know how it looks. I know what you mean,” Harry said quickly. It  _ was _ weird that he’d been acting so strangely. Even Tina had thought so, enough that she’d asked if he was alright. It must have been a mistake with the brewing, or the dose was too strong. Summs had told him it would take a while to acclimatise to it. “Look, I’ve got one vial left of the old potion in my office. I think Zantia might have more, I don’t know, but she’s in Scotland anyway. I’ll use that in the morning, and…” He stopped as pain blossomed in his temples, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Uh, and I’ll dilute one of the new ones afterwards until I hear from you. Madam Summs did say it was stronger, so if I dilute it then it’ll be fine, right?”

Severus admitted defeat, but repeated his warning a few times until Harry reassured him that he totally understood and accepted that something was going on. Then, since Harry was more and more tired by the minute, he fell into a light doze.

It couldn’t have been that much later that he woke up again, feeling a bit more human. It was comfortable, quiet and dark, and once again Harry was able to exist without thinking about work. He knew it was part of his job as an auror to take it all home with him, but it just left so little room for anything else in his life. Things like relaxation, they just didn’t exist for aurors even after they went home to their families.

Severus breathed evenly beside him, but otherwise there was no indication to say whether he was asleep or simply thinking, as Harry was.

He wondered again if being an auror was right for him. But what else was there? He was too old and injured for quidditch, which was the only thing he’d been any good at other than destroying dark lords. Maybe teaching, like Zantia? No, he hated children.

“What am I going to do with my life, Severus?” he found himself asking.

The silence stretched out a little longer before the man replied cautiously. “In what respect?” Harry could almost imagine the carefully passive expression he might have been sporting at that moment.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, life. You know what I mean.”

Severus hummed.

“I just can’t help but think that maybe I’ve turned out a bit shit,” Harry clarified, when nothing more was forthcoming. “I go to work, I don’t solve anything, I go home and drink, or I come here and lie in the dark with you and pretend everything else doesn’t exist. It’s all so, I don’t know. Sad. Is this the life the famous Harry Potter was destined to live?”

“Perhaps you put too much of your fate in the hands of a destiny that does not exist, and not enough in your own,” Severus answered sleepily.

“I make decisions,” Harry argued.

“Do you.”

Damn the man.

“I decided to become an auror,” Harry said. He’d not decided for Ginny to leave him, or to get an injury severe enough to take him out of the field, or for Bobbi to die. They weren’t up to him, but he’d decided what to do afterwards and that counted for something. “I took the senior position after my injury.” Not that he’d had a choice, really. He tried to think of something else, some other action or course he’d picked for himself in the last decades. Nothing sprang to mind. He dropped his hands into his lap. “Shit.”

“I tried to tell Albus,” Severus began, sighing. “You were too focussed on the need to kill Voldemort, and we failed to give you anything to live for afterwards. Just one mission, and you weren’t to know whether or not you would survive to see the aftermath.”

It made Harry uncomfortable to think of Hogwarts while wrapped in Severus’ arm. There was a world of difference between Severus Snape of Barrod Road, and Professor Snape of Hogwarts. It was enough of a difference to stop him from moving away, but he didn’t need the two men reconciled in his mind.

“No one else has anything to live for, either,” Harry argued. They all seemed just fine, living their lives without some grand mission or reason to carry on.

“We have many things to live for, Harry.” Severus admonished. “Friends and families. The search for and retention of a romantic partner, procreation. Hobbies, travel. When did you last leave the country?”

“Those aren’t things to live for,” Harry retorted. Of course the man wouldn’t understand. “They’re just…  _ things _ .”

“This is exactly my meaning, thank you for demonstrating your idiocy,” Severus said, but there was no barb in it. Harry waited for the explanation to come. “The everyday person learns to find value in those things, to live for them. People live for the joy or pain of doing the things they love, with the people they love.”

“And you’d know so much about that,” Harry griped sarcastically.

There was a long pause.

“I suppose not,” Severus said after a while, shrugging against Harry’s ear.

Shit, he should have kept his stupid mouth shut. Harry tried to think up the right wording for an apology that would sound convincing, but what he’d said was the truth. How would Severus know about doing the things he loved with the people he loved, when he couldn’t even brew potions any more - at least, nothing more complex or interesting than a calming draught - and so far as Harry knew he didn’t love anyone at all. Before he could think of adequate wording, Severus started talking again with a slow and measured voice.

“I spent a great deal of my latter teenage years attempting to prove myself worthy to a particular group. I’m sure I needn’t tell you who. When your mother was killed and you were orphaned, it became my life’s work to protect you from that same group, as difficult as that may be to believe.”

Considering the number of times Snape had saved his skin, it wasn’t  _ that _ difficult in retrospect. It’d hardly felt like it at the time, though. Evil bastard.

“When the second war was over and I was believed to be dead, I attempted to go into hiding but ultimately failed.” Here, Severus paused and took a breath. The brief silence made the room feel cavernous. “I sat in my room at Spinner's End and allowed life to happen to me. I had no mission. No plans, no interests in which I could indulge and no friends to invite even if I had wished for company.”

Well, that sounded pathetically familiar. “You sure you’re trying to convince me that there's something to live for?” Harry joked.

“My  _ point _ is that we are similar in this respect. When you spend so many years - particularly in your youth - focussed on one objective, one grand mission from which you are not certain you will return, you do not learn what the everyday person learns,” Severus explained, his voice gaining an edge at having to explain what Harry apparently should already have understood. “Most of the population grow up with nothing in particular to do. They learn that life is about the small things they do every day and the effect they have on each others’ lives, and most accept it. Therefore when they are thrown out into the world, they are more easily able to find meaning in those small things.”

“So you’re saying it’s not that  _ our _ lives are meaningless, it’s everyone’s lives that are meaningless and we only notice it because we had real meaning for a while?” Harry said slowly.

“No!” Severus threw his arms up, and Harry was pushed off his shoulder. He settled into the second customary position instead, sliding down to rest his head again on the man’s leg. “How could I have forgotten your incredible ability to hear words without listening. In one ear, as they say.”

Harry huffed and pulled his legs up onto the sofa so that his back wasn’t twisted awkwardly. Severus wasn’t making any sense at all. “Look, just explain it plainly to me, okay? You like to talk about how stupid I am, well treat me like it. Just tell me without all the…” He waved his hands in the air to communicate something vague, but since neither of them could see shit, he tried to come up with a word as well. “... Faff.”

“Believe me, I was already treating you like an imbecile,” Severus argued, his legs twitching as he carried on moving animatedly. “I can’t help that you have managed to surprise me once again with the depth of your abysmal intellectual capacity. I put too much faith in your ability to change.”

Harry, fed up of getting jostled around, reached up and managed to catch one of Severus’ hands. He pulled it down and placed it on his chest. “Who’s the one acting all manic now?” he said.

Severus came to a stop, dropping his other hand to wind a path through Harry’s hair. “I shall attempt to put it into words you could have understood even as an eleven year old.”

“Thank you,” Harry said graciously.

“Once upon a time, there were lots of little fishies in the sea…”

Harry laughed.

“...and they lived very meaningful lives, Potter. This is a serious story, do attempt to pay attention. The fish lived in a coral reef, and they fulfilled many functions such as removing debris, dead coral and algae through consumption. This allowed the reef to flourish. They also partook in mating cycles to procreate and ensure the health of the reef for future generations. These actions brought them great meaning, both on a personal level and in the grand scheme of the reef biosphere.”

It was probably a good thing Severus had no kids. “All was well in the reef for many generations, until one day a terrible plague hit the coral and they lost all of their bright colours.  _ Oh dear. _ They became white and dull, and stopped growing. The coral polyps had begun to expel the algae stored inside their bodies, and as a result were dying from starvation as nine tenths of their energy was created as a result of their endosymbiotic relationship with the algae. The poor little fishies were at a loss - what to do, what to do?”

Harry hoped there wouldn’t be a test on this later, because most of Severus’ simple explanation was going right over his head so far. Not to mention that he was horribly distracted by trying not to laugh.

“They realised that the cause was an increase in water temperature, which was in turn caused by global climate change. There seemed to be nothing our fishy friends could do about this, but they chose one brave little fish to find a way to solve the problem. He was called Idiot Fish. That fish is you.” As if Harry needed telling. He was enjoying the story, though. “With the help of many allies, and after many days of training - the equivalent of human years, for this particular species of fish - he was able to gain great powers and go on a murderous rampage, killing all of the pesky humans so that there was no more climate change. The oceans cooled again, and the coral polyps began to recover.”

“Yay,” Harry said, trying to play his part as a child audience.

“And thus the little fishies of the sea all went back to their meaningful lives, safe in the knowledge that the problem had been solved and the reef was healthy once more.” Severus started running his fingers in circles over Harry’s scalp, which seemed to be a habit of his when his mind was occupied. “For Idiot Fish however, things were not so simple. He had never known a normal life. Every single flap of his little flippers had been for the purpose of destroying the human scourge, and he was suddenly expected to be satisfied with procreating and eating dead algae all day? The other fish all understood the meaning of this, to a greater or lesser degree, but Idiot Fish could not and thus he lived out the rest of his life unhappy and unfulfilled. The end.”

He seemed to notice what he’d been doing with his hand and stopped, but kept it there, all wrapped up in Harry’s messy hair.

“So what you’re saying is that life isn’t meaningless, but I got spoiled by having a special mission and now I’m too arrogant to lower myself to everyone else’s definition of meaning?” Harry said, aiming to force another laugh out of the man. It didn’t work, but it was worth a shot.

Severus let out a suffering sigh. “I should have known that a  _ bedtime story _ would help you to understand.”

Harry grinned. “You’re trying really hard to offend me today, aren’t you?”

“And you are trying awfully hard not to speak of anything consequential,” Severus answered. “You do realise that life is still going on, out there. And in here, for that matter.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Harry grouched, his mood souring quickly. “I don’t want to think, alright? That’s why I like it here. I don’t have to think about work, about the case, or how shit everything is. How Briggs is ten times the auror I ever was, and whenever I think I’m just getting back on my feet I get knocked over in a cafe and suddenly I can’t walk without a cane, if at all. I don’t have to think about drinking, about what it’s- what  _ I’ve  _ done with my life.”

“And I suppose the company is just a bonus,” Severus said. His tone was even, but considering that his comments had been spiked all evening, that stood out as an oddity and Harry was alert enough to notice it.

“No.” He said, with as much certainty as he could muster. He squeezed Severus’ hand. “I love your company, I do. You’re nothing at all like I thought, you’ve been nothing but kind and modest. You listen to me complain all the time, and even when you’re being a bastard you’re not really.” Harry raised Severus’ hand to his cheek, but anything he could think of to say next sounded too personal and intimate so he stayed silent.

Severus pulled his hand away gently but firmly, though his left one was still entangled in Harry’s hair. “You should be careful in what you say. I could misunderstand very easily.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Harry replied quietly. “I guess it’s just another thing I’m trying not to think about.”

“This, ah, is something I’d prefer you did,” Severus said, his thumb working through Harry’s hair. Was he really not aware of doing it? “It isn’t without consequence for me.”

Harry squinted up at where he thought Severus’s head might be, though it didn’t make anything clearer. “You’re not attracted to me though,” he said. Hadn’t they already sorted this out?

“I said I wasn’t desirous of sexual relations with you,” Severus corrected. “And I’m not. I would never desire something from you that you would not give. I am however a sentimental, lonely old sod. I would rather that you were cautious of my heart.”

“You don’t have-”

“I do,” Severus assured him. “I simply never allow others to see it. Unfortunately, there is something about men who are intelligent, persistent, caring and humorous that makes it difficult to keep up appearances. I’d rather not become a pathetic old wizard holding secret one-sided affection for a younger man. Hence the warning: be careful with me, and do nothing unthinkingly.”

Harry grinned. “Did you just call me intelligent?”

He could almost hear Severus rolling his eyes. “I was rather hoping that you wouldn’t notice, amongst the smorgasbord of shocking revelations laid out before you.”

“Well I did notice, and… and I listened as well,” Harry said cautiously. He couldn’t think of a way to demonstrate his sincerity. “I want to have an answer for you, but I’m- I don’t know what I want. I like it here. It’s comfortable, but part of that is me not having to think about everything that’s going on outside. I feel safe. With you, I mean. But I’m not...”

“Gay?”

“Good at being close to people, having them touch me,” he said.

The hand in his hair moved down to his face. “Do you mind when I touch you like this?” Severus asked.

Fingers traced gently along his cheek and down to his jaw, while Severus’ thumb trailed a line down to the corner of his mouth. He turned towards it slightly, feeling warm skin again his lip.

It was fine - good, even. It made him feel… “I don’t know,” he said, forcing his doubt to the surface. “I’m fine now, but what if I’m not tomorrow? What if it gets worse and it’s not fine any more and I freeze up or I feel sick? What if it’s only ever fine in the dark?”

“What if you get to know me better and decide that I’m not worth your time?” Severus countered. “What if you reveal the location of my house to others? What if I find out that I dislike you after all? What if you realise that I’m a miserable old man who lives alone in a dark house and brews beer to make himself feel better about the fact that he will never again be able to brew the things he truly desires?”

“Exactly,” Harry agreed. “What if… What if I end up losing my leg and I can’t come to visit anymore? What if you die, or I die, or go missing, or I get hurt on a case? What if I really like you, and you leave? Is it really worth all those rubbish what ifs, for one maybe-okay what if?”

“And what if this is it?” Severus asked. “What if no one comes along after this, and I spend the rest of my life alone? What if I die, and no one cares? No one notices? No one comes to check in on the old brewer on Barrod Road for a few weeks and I lie here rotting? What if you and I could be the best thing that happened to either of us? What if we could have made each other happy, but we’ll never know?”

“Sounds like you already made up your mind,” Harry commented, surprised at how much the other man had apparently thought about it already.

“I haven’t,” Severus replied easily. He moved his hand from Harry’s face to his hair again. “I may not be as pessimistic as you, but I’m cautious enough. I was simply making a case for the other side, since you don’t seem able to see it.”

“What if I still don’t see it?”

“Then we are no doubt about to have a rather awkward conversation, after which you may or may not wish to meet once a week in the pub as friends,” Severus said. “And the clarity would save us both, but me especially, a lot of pain in the long run.”

Harry turned his head to the side, towards Severus’s knees, and the hand slipped through his hair. “What if,” he began quietly, gathering his thoughts. “I don’t know what I want, or what will happen. What if we just meet sometimes, and go for drinks and chips, and do this? And maybe we could do something else together, I don’t know. Go for a walk, or visit a castle or something. Then in a few weeks we talk about this again when we know better and I’ve had some time to think.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Severus asked, his tone half teasing.

Harry tried to shrug, which was difficult lying sideways. “What if I am? Just to test out how I feel, I’m not saying I fancy you or anything,” he clarified.

“Of course not,” Severus agreed amiably, stroking his hair, and Harry knew that he’d already lost this battle. Whatever it was. He’d hung his coat on the closest hook, and now it wouldn’t come loose.


	16. Chapter 15

Having exhausted both of their abilities for talking on personal matters, they fell into their usual silence. For a long while, Severus carded his fingers soothingly through Harry’s hair, until the man fell asleep.

Harry lay awake and listened to Severus breathing. Despite the unfortunate size of his nose, it didn’t seem like he snored - at least not when sleeping in an upright position. That would be very good when- if they carried on like this.

Harry couldn’t sleep, having already napped once, but he was stuck in that strange state of unthinking, as if his brain had gone through enough for the day and had decided to switch off while forgetting to put his consciousness on stand-by. It would have been one of those staring-blankly-at-the-ceiling nights, if not for the fact he couldn’t see a thing.

After what felt like hours, he realised that he was shivering from the cold, and curled up as small as his leg would allow. Then even later, he remembered that he was in fact a fairly powerful wizard to whom warming charms were not unknown. With a persistent charm cast on the cushion underneath him, he finally fell asleep.

It was a loud groan that woke him next. “I can’t do this,” Severus complained, his voice strained. “Not one more night. My back will never recover.”

Harry sat up groggily, giving Severus the freedom he needed to stretch. Even though he’d only just woken up, Harry was agitated. Like that feeling you have when you’re sure you’ve forgotten something, made physical. It prickled on his skin, and in the back of his head. His leg wasn’t too bad, considering the way he’d been all curled up, but his back was covered with an unpleasant sheen of sweat thanks to the warmed-up sofa cushion.

“Are you alright?” Severus asked, though his voice was thick with sleep. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, making him jump, then moved it up to the side of his face. “You’re quiet again.” His thumb swept over Harry’s cheekbone and down his ear, pinching the lobe for a moment before jerking away.

It was… Shit, Harry’d already lost this, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter what he made himself think, or what he feared might happen. It was too late for reason, too late for fear. How had he gotten this far along without bloody noticing?

He supposed this was what came of refusing to think about things. It didn’t actually stop you from feeling anything.

He swallowed the saliva that suddenly seemed to be building up in the back of his throat. “Severus…”

“Uh-oh,” the man sighed.

“No, it’s alright,” Harry assured him. “I was just wondering if you’d walk me outside, so I can see you.”

Severus grumbled that it didn’t sound alright for anyone, least of all Harry, but he acquiesced. Then he grumbled and complained about his back every step of the way as he guided Harry through the house. “Haven’t even had a coffee yet, someone kill me...”

There was a two-door system to prevent sunlight from reaching Severus’ precious ingredients, which Harry remembered from the other night though it had been dark anyway. There was a small empty hallway leading between the inner and outer doors, the walls painted all black to stop reflection.

It was just before dawn when Severus unlocked, unwarded and opened the outer door. The sky was that washed-out blue colour, with just a hint of orange to show that the sun was on its way. It was also cold, and they both shivered in the early morning air as they stepped outside. The garden was the same horrible mess Harry had seen before, worse if anything now that he could see more details.

He drew his eyes back to Severus and studied the man. He was stiff, like he was waiting to be stabbed in the stomach, and his face was closed-off. Expecting the worst, probably.

He was still ugly. His nose, it was just so fucking big and pointy compared to the rest of his face. His lips were thin, made more so by the tight line he was pressing them into, and his brows sat so low over his eyes with that scowl that Harry thought he’d be just as blind even without the curse. No, it was not a pretty face at all, and not even rose-tinted glasses could change that.

Harry raised his hands to it, one on either side. “Would you stop making that face?”

“What face?” Severus said, and his voice betrayed the discomfort he was trying to hide.

“The I’m-trying-not-to-show-any-emotion-on-my-face face,” Harry replied, squeezing the man’s cheeks gently.

Severus’ scowl deepened, despite what Harry’s knowledge of facial anatomy told him was possible. “If you expect me to suddenly become some emotional sop who express-“

“I expect no such thing,” Harry said firmly, though he thought that in the safety of his own home, Severus was already a bit of an emotional sop. Loved talking about feelings all the bloody time, he never stopped really. “I just wanted to see you in the light.” He stroked a cheek, much like Severus had done to him several times already. The skin wasn’t soft and plump like Ginevra’s had been once upon a time. 

“Don’t be a fool, Potter.” Severus gripped Harry’s wrists, but stopped short of pulling his hands away.

Harry smiled. “Can’t help being what I am, can I?”

And then he leaned up and pressed their lips together.

The first moment was like kissing a plank of wood, then Severus relaxed into the kiss. He slid Harry’s hands up into his thick black hair, then let go of his wrists to hold onto Harry’s waist instead, pulling him closer.

It was very quickly apparent which of them was the more experienced kisser, as Severus sucked in Harry’s lower lip and ran his tongue over the tender skin before releasing it and crushing their mouths together again.

Harry was more busy with his hands. Severus’ hair didn’t feel as oily as it appeared, and he ran his fingers through it. He put one hand round the back of the man’s head, pulling it down towards him. He finally understood why everyone else seemed so intent on finding people taller than themselves.

Severus paused, or maybe stuttered was more the word, mid-kiss when Harry ran a finger down the outer edge of his ear. When he resumed, it was deeper, closer and slower. Harry parted his lips to let Severus inside, and their tongues met.

Merlin, he was kissing Severus Snape. He was...  _ Kissing. Severus. Snape _ . And it was so fucking lovely. 

Severus pulled away slowly, and Harry opened his eyes to see the man’s lips were red and glistening. “You were supposed to take some time to think about it,” he said quietly.

Harry smiled self-consciously. “Yeah, well I tried but you know I’m no good at thinking things through.” He said. He tried searching Severus’ face for any sign of regret, but was distracted but the refracting dawn light in his eyes. “Fuck, you look so…”

“I know.” Severus turned his face away, but Harry forced it back.

“No, you don’t.” He said. “Well, you do. Let’s be real. But you also don’t. Your eyes are… Argh, look I wasn’t going to tell you because it’s really fucking embarassing to say out loud, but you have genuinely the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.”

“Don’t-“ Severus tried to free himself again.

“Really, Severus.” Harry insisted. “I know it’s a result of the curse and I don’t remember what they used to look like other than angry, but scars can be pretty and… And your eyes are like the whole damn night sky, alright? I look into them and I see all the stars and galaxies in the universe glittering away. From the first moment I saw them, that’s all I’ve thought. Every single bloody time I-”

“Stop, stop,” Severus said, finally managing to twist out of Harry’s grasp. “I understand, just give me a moment.”

Harry let him go, and the wizard turned to face the other way. He put his palms over his eyes and leaned back, face pointed up to the sky. It was a familiar movement, the same one Harry had seen Molly do whenever she tried to hide how overwhelmed she was with running the household after Fred died. Like she thought she could push her tears back inside her eyes and carry on with cooking dinner.

Harry took a respectful step back and turned his gaze to the rising sun. It was getting lighter and lighter, and Harry could see more details in the garden now. Hidden in amongst the tangled mess of weeds and vines, he fancied he could see glimpses of terracotta pots. A single, strangled fuschia bush rose up from the weeds like some monster rising from the depths of a murky lake.

“Thank you,” Severus said, and Harry turned back to him. His eyelids were red, but then so were his cheeks and his lips and his ears. He was blushing all over.

Harry should have liked to stay a little longer, but he had work to get to and Severus was anxious to test out whatever his theory was about Harry’s pain relievers. They kissed again by the fireplace, just a short one this time, and Harry promised to come by again later if work allowed.

“We will be having a conversation about this later,” Severus warned him, and Harry grimaced. The whole point of kissing the man was  _ not _ talking about it. Intent through actions, sort of thing.

By the time he got to the office, his leg was absolutely killing him once again, and he drank the old pain reliever like a man finding water in the desert. Although he’d found it perfectly satisfactory until now, he couldn’t help but feel cheated as it only took the edge off the pain.

He felt a strange, deep irritation in his bones, a bit like the feeling he’d had when Draco kissed him, half panic and half paralysis. Was it just a delayed reaction to Severus? It lasted all through the early morning until the rest of his team started meandering in, and beyond.

But whenever he thought of the kiss, the agitation didn’t get worse. He felt good about it, he was sure. He’d enjoyed it. He wanted to do it again, wanted to see Severus again. He just couldn’t shake off this feeling, like an itch in his blood. It pawed at the back of his mind even as he tried to concentrate on other things. How long would it be fine for? How long until he couldn’t stand to sit in a room with Severus, until every innocent touch felt like a threat?

He knew they’d need to talk about it, about boundaries. What they wanted out of the… the rela- the  _ thing that they were _ . He couldn’t imagine how it would go down though.  _ Hey so now that we’ve kissed I’d just like to reiterate that’s as far as I want to go for the rest of my life and so if you want something more then- then please don’t want anything more, just stay exactly like this forever and let’s also never ever talk about this ever again _ . Surely there was no positive response possible to a request like that?

Luckily for Harry’s sanity, Dowell got in at a quarter to nine with news big enough to distract him. He’d spoken to the aurors Harry had requested and one of them had started acting real shady. “I couldn’t wring an alibi out of him,” Dowell said. He spoke quietly, even though they were in Harry’s office with the door closed. “Just kept saying he must have been watching the quidditch and I couldn’t push it without being obvious.”

“You did well,” Harry told him, both pleased and surprised. The auror had been a blundering idiot during every case since he joined Harry’s team, but in the last week he’d really shown some growth. Bringing new ideas to the table, being more assertive. Harry had a tiny bit of hope for the man. Perhaps he was better able to bring his best self to work, now that he didn’t have to worry about hiding some parts of himself, at least from Harry. Someone had his back. “Do you know where Burkin usually takes his lunch? I might just bump into him for a quiet word.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” Dowell asked. “It might spook him if he thinks he’s a suspect.”

“Let him be spooked, maybe he’ll make a mistake,” Harry answered. Besides, he needed to force something quickly if he wanted to avoid taking Severus into custody on Friday. He could think of no way at all that could go down well with the man, especially considering the fact that they were now… something.

Dowell confided that he’d heard Auror Burkin say he was going to try a muggle cafe in Lewisham at around 12, which was perfect. It saved Harry the effort of drawing the auror out into a more secluded place than the Ministry building, where he might feel more inclined to talk. It also gave him plenty of time to prepare.

“Get me any files you can find about him, would you?” he asked Dowell.

“Of course, sir. And, um…” the man hesitated.

“Yes?” Harry didn’t mean for his voice to come out so sharp, considering how helpful Dowell had just been. He was trying bloody hard this week not to be as big of a dickhead as usual.

“Well it’s just that you’re looking a bit, ah, peaky. I was wondering if you’d taken a pain reliever this morning,” Dowell replied.

Harry’s regret evaporated. Nosy bloody auror, the only person who was allowed to ask him that without repercussion in this office was Zantia, and she wasn’t here. “Close the door on your way out.”

Once Dowell was gone, he bashed his hand on the desk in triumph. Finally, an actual fucking suspect.

Today was going perfectly. Now, if only he could get rid of this horrible shivery sweat he seemed to be stuck in, it would be better than perfect. He decided that a shower would probably help, and hurried to the twelfth basement floor to take one.

Even though he’d never had any such issues in the past, two different people bumped into him on his way there, and both managed to catch him on his bad side. The second one, a man Harry didn’t recognise, even bashed the wound directly with his hard black briefcase. Harry had half a mind to think it intentional, except that the poor guy was so embarrassingly apologetic about it afterwards.

Harry got to the bathroom, hobbling and grimacing, and almost said damn it all to Severus’ stupid theory. He had a vial out of his pocket before he changed his mind and put it back. He shouldn’t be taking one until elevenish anyway, not that he’d listened to the guidelines before. Three a day, they’d said, and he’d been averaging five or six for the last six months.

The hot shower helped relax his muscles, and he felt a little better. On the way back up, yet another clerk almost bumped into him but he managed a sidestep just in time. Really, it seemed like everyone was out to get him today.

Burkin’s file was waiting for him on his desk. Auror Grinslow Burkin, 47 years of age. He’d been an auror for 24 years, and before joining he was an apprentice candlestick maker of all things. Married for just over a decade. He had three children, all adults now, and there was nothing at all dodgy about him on paper. He’d won some sort of bravery award just after the second war, but Harry had never heard of it before so he resolved to ask the man about it later.

He lived in London, just a short walk from the Ministry’s telephone box entrance. There wasn’t much else about him to know. No warnings, no disciplinaries, no hearings or anything like that. Just a very ordinary, law-abiding auror with nothing interesting about him at all. If nothing else, that was suspicious, right? Why were the aurors in homicide so damn clean?

He stood to fetch his own team files from a metal sliding cabinet and was overcome with a sudden bout of dizziness. He sat back down, cradling his forehead until it had passed. His hand was shaking again. Fucking hell. He was going to have to take a pain reliever soon, no matter what Severus said. He couldn’t think of any poisons or substances anyone could have put in his potion to cause this. He was tired, in pain, outright jittery, and he just needed to take his damn bloody potion.

He accio’d the files instead and opened up the first. Zantia, of course. She had a juvenile record, as most werewolves did. Theft, aggravated assault. She’d have been expelled from any other school but Hogwarts, which he supposed cast a light on why she was so determined to teach there. It was clear from her history that no one had given her even half a chance before Headmistress McGonagall. Even after becoming an auror, she had three warnings on her file from the first year, all for angry outbursts, as well as a rather offensive clerk note disputing her suitability for the role considering that she had to take so much time off sick for the monthly transformation. It was strange, but Harry almost never even thought about it. Rare was the occasion when it had been particularly inconvenient.

Mosser, who was actually called Mossine Uwell, was another troublemaker - a bit of a joker in his youth, who’d set fire to a few classrooms. He had one disciplinary on file for harassment of a fellow auror, three years into his career. Harry could just about remember it, some kind of drama between Mosser and someone in sports regulations who had apparently stolen his girlfriend.

Even Tina wasn’t clean. She’d gotten two separate warnings for tardiness when she’d worked under Auror Zhang in taxes, though Harry had no complaints from her time in his team. He wasn’t exactly the most punctual himself, and he didn’t keep track of his team’s comings and goings. It was a trust thing - so long as they all did their jobs, it didn’t matter if they started at 7 or 9.

DeRobles was the only one with a spotless record. Bloody sensible man. His wife had a short sentence for performing magic in front of a muggle two years ago though.

Dowell’s was interesting. He’d gotten into a lot of fights at school, bad enough that Minerva had written a personal letter of de-recommendation. The letter itself wasn’t included in the file, which was odd since it was clearly referenced. Dowell had been snapped up straight out of training by the homicide department, and then quickly dumped for “incompatibility with team values”. That was the most bullshit generic reason Harry had ever seen, and he had to wonder again if someone had found out that the man was gay. If Jameson was right then Briggs didn’t exactly have the best view of gay people, and wouldn’t stand for having one in his team.

It was all speculation though. Hopefully his interview with Burkin would reveal more.

Speaking of which, he’d better get moving. He piled up his team files and stood up more slowly this time to put them back. His leg wasn’t too bad, but everything else seemed to be aching and he felt vaguely sick. He’d just have to do it, he decided.

He cast aguamenti into a cleanish mug on his desk, then took out one of the vials and tipped a few droplets - about a quarter of the vial - into it. He supposed he could always have more later if it didn’t do anything, so too little was better than too much. He drank the water down and waited to see if anything would happen. It took a few minutes, and there wasn’t a noticeable difference in his leg but he did feel better generally. Not as jangly in his nerves.

That’d have to do for now. He slipped the vial into his inner robe pocket so that he’d know which one he’d taken from later.

He arrived at the muggle cafe a few minutes ahead of time to set himself up comfortably in a corner. He ordered a black coffee and a chocolate brownie, and had a look around. It was a small hipster-type place with seven types of plant-based milk, bright illustrations on the wall and a specials board written in chalk that looked like it hadn’t changed in a long time. There were only ten tables in the place, but it wasn’t busy so Harry was easily able to choose a round table in the far corner. Anyone coming into the cafe would see and recognise him from the door, but the baristas at the counter couldn’t overhear too much of their conversation.

He took a few steadying breaths and pressed a hand into his stomach. Bloody cramps. It wasn’t nerves or anything like that, he didn’t tend towards an unsettled stomach when he was nervous. Just one more thing to blame on the absence of alcohol or presence of the potion.

Burkin entered just as Harry’s coffee was brought to his table. Their eyes met and the auror looked surprised for only a split second before giving Harry a smile and walking to the counter to order his drink. He paid with a muggle bank card, which he pulled from a wallet with many plastic cards inside. Definitely muggleborn, that one.

“Harry Potter, to what do I owe this surprise?” Burkin said as he approached the table. His tone and body language were open and friendly, disarmingly so. He just seemed like an ordinary nice bloke. Greying sandy-brown hair cut to below the ears, grey-blue eyes. He was maybe a couple of inches shorter than Harry, clean-shaven and thin.

Harry shrugged. “Just fancied a change of scenery, and I’m less likely to be recognised in places like this. Went to a nice place down in Brighton yesterday, I think it was called The Showrooms if you’re looking for a recommendation.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Burkin replied with another easy smile. “And how’s the investigation going? I bumped into Alisdair yesterday.”

“Did you?” Harry asked innocently. “I’ll have to tell him to stop slacking off then.”

“Oh no, it was after hours I assure you,” Burkin replied. He didn’t look particularly worried though. It was starting to get creepy how pleasant he was. “He came out for a few drinks with the boys, you don’t do that over in  _ thefts and buggery _ ?”

Harry gave an obligatory laugh at the joke name for his department - there were a few of them, but this one was high in circulation at the moment because of their investigation - and waved a hand. “Nah, DeRobles’ wife would kill him if he didn’t go straight home, and Tina doesn’t drink so there doesn’t seem to be much of a point.”

“And you? Can’t say I’ve seen you about in the Leaky Cauldron.”

Who exactly was the one interrogating who, here? “I’m a bit of a pub tourist. CAMRA tours and all that, you know? Never the same place twice.” Harry knew vaguely of the existence for the Campaign for Real Ales, anyway. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something actually… Ah.”

They quieted as the barista dropped off Auror Burkin’s drink, some kind of brown foamy concoction in a tall glass. They both thanked the girl and she smiled, so they both smiled back. Smiles all round, God it was awful being outside. What he’d give to be back in Severus’ house where he would never have to smile ever again.

“I noticed a while back, when I was last hiring, that a few of the more seasoned aurors have this award thing-”

“Ah, the Bravery Button you mean?” Burkin asked, and seemed genuinely confused for the first time. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting to get asked about - which begged the question, what  _ was _ he expecting?

“That’s the one,” Harry confirmed.

Burkin stirred his drink and took a sip, obviously delaying for time to think. Harry bit into his brownie to hide his own impatience, noticed that his fingers had begun shaking again, and hid them under the table. Not now… What the fuck was wrong with him? “It’s not really an official award, at least it wasn’t at the time. Bunch of us got ‘em for rounding up Death Eaters after the last battle. Hogwarts.” The man nodded to Harry here. “They were a lively lot, a few aurors injured, two dead. No one seemed to give a damn in all the turmoil and fuss, so our team leader gave us the buttons from his jacket and we called them medals.”

Harry nodded slowly, putting on his best calm exterior. There was more to it, he felt, so he stayed silent. Seemed like the thefts weren’t the only things overlooked right after the war.

Burkin chuckled nostalgically. “It was a stupid little ceremony... Davies, step forward and receive your button. I dub thee a mother fucking hero, you crazy bastard. Burkin, step forward and receive your button. I dub thee a mighty fucker.” He drank from his glass again, and raised it in mock salute. “Chai, lovely alternative if you’re looking to reduce your caffeine. Probably about twenty teaspoons of sugar in it though.”

Harry saluted back with his black coffee. He became aware that his lower back was sweating unpleasantly, and pushed himself to ignore it. “Who was your team lead back then? Robards?”

Burkin looked surprised again. “Robards? Oh no, he was off up in the clouds doing… You know, all the politics side of things, safety of the minister, plans to prevent rioting, that sort of thing. He wasn’t in the field, he didn’t see what it was like for us. No, no, there’s only one man I followed then or since.”

“Auror Briggs,” Harry said flatly, his stomach flipping.

“Right,” the other man grinned. “When he became head of department officially, he had the awards put down on file as the Bravery Button, but we always called them Briggs’ Buttons because they came off his coat.”

Now that Harry thought about it, he’d seen a ragged looking navy jacket with all the buttons torn off hanging behind a glass plate on the wall of their department hall. He’d never given it a second thought, just assumed it was some old relic no one paid attention to.

“Sounds like he was just as inspiring then as he is now,” Harry said, and Burkin nodded, his eyes still distant in that memory. He let the man have a minute, then turned to his second line of questioning. “We just came up with a bunch of thefts from directly after the war, know who might have been working the case back then?”

Burkin blinked. “Ah, ‘fraid not. Al did mention that yesterday, but if I’m honest I don’t think anyone was ‘on the case’, exactly. I told him the same thing.” He shrugged apologetically. “We just didn’t have the time to investigate flowerpots and jugs.”

Harry nodded and waved away the issue. “We were thinking the same,” he said. “And what’re your thoughts on the more recent thefts?”

“Me?” Burkin was keeping himself in a perpetual state of surprise at anything Harry said, it seemed. “Can’t say as I keep up with what the other departments are up to.” His tone suggested ever so slightly that the other departments couldn’t be up to much of any consequence compared to his own.

Harry forced a playful smile, but dropped it as his cheek began to twitch. “Oh, come now, everyone I’ve met has an opinion on it. All over the news? Surely you’ve seen something.”

“Well, quite,” Burkin replied, finally looking off balance a little. “Let me see. Three or four thefts, all within a week and none in the last few days. If your press conference is to be believed - you did wonderful work playing that, by the way - then I should think it’ll all come to a head when the Wizengamot meets on Friday.”

_ Can’t say as I keep up _ , my arse. “Well put,” Harry said, inclining his head. Then he caught and held the other man’s eye. “And what will you be doing on Friday, Auror Burkin?”

The auror smiled another empty, friendly smile. “I quite imagine that I shall be working,” he said. His eyes darted to the cafe window. “Ah, and I believe that you’ve been found out. Best of luck.”

As he stood up, the cafe door swung open and Ron stepped inside. His walk was casual, but his eyes were like bloody thunder. Shit. How had he found out?

Burkin walked to Ron and they exchanged brief, mock-surprise pleasantries. Harry used the opportunity to take a few calming breaths. His stomach was churning and his skin had grown hot, but when he looked at his hands they were pale.

He looked up as Ron approached. His friend didn’t sit down, but stalked right up to Harry’s chair and leaned down over him menacingly. Never before had he felt more keenly the height and weight difference between them. “They’re playing you like a bloody bagpipe, Harry,” he growled. “Blowing air right up your fucking arse. You have no idea how much I’ve done to support ‘Mione in this. How many months I prepped. You don’t know what the  _ hell  _ you’re messing up for her right now.”

Harry picked up his near-untouched brownie and took an unconcerned bite, then held a hand in front of his mouth as he spoke, so as not to be rude. “Perhaps if someone had informed me, I wouldn’t need to conduct half my investigation in secret.”

“Investigation?” Ron snarled, then glanced at the counter and lowered his voice, leaning in even closer. “ _ Investigation _ ? There is no investigation, not for you. You fuck up everything you touch, you’re a bloody liability.” He flicked a hand violently at the room behind him as if to demonstrate one such fuck-up.

Harry sighed. “Don’t suppose you have a portkey back to my office, do you?” He wasn’t sure how much longer he could play nonchalance, and realised it was probably the wrong tack anyway. Too late now.

Ron slammed a book down on the table in front of them, making the cups jump and rattle. “As a matter of fact, I do. Because I had to risk blowing my cover to come pull your arse out of the fire yet again and bring you home.” Harry couldn’t remember a single other time Ron had done so, but there we are.

“Guess I’ll come peacefully then,” Harry answered, picking up the book. All the pages inside were blank, reminding him of Riddle’s diary. Merlin, that felt like five lifetimes ago. How had it gotten like this between them? “Is ‘Mione there?”

Ron ground his teeth, jaw clenched. “She is, and she’s fucking pissed.”

That made one of them, at least. Harry would have loved a drink right about now. He stood up, keeping a steady hand on the wall as he did so to make sure that he didn’t suddenly fall over with dizziness. His neck itched from the sweat. “What’re we waiting for, then?”

Harry was expecting them to walk somewhere private to portkey, but Ron looked him up and down in disgust, then turned around and cast a mass obliviate on the room before grabbing the book.

They reappeared in his office, and Harry thumped against his desk retching. “Fuck, give a man some warning next time,” he gasped, and patted his leg to make sure it was safely attached.

Fucking hell. His chair was within easy reach, so he slumped into it and exhaled slowly. If it hadn’t been bad enough before, his thigh was an explosion of pain now. He struggled to focus.

“Harry James Potter, I don’t know  _ what  _ you were thinking.”

Hermione sounded exactly the same as she had in secondary school: equal parts anger, disbelief and frustration. “Just a second,” he groaned, stretching his bad leg out straight with his eyes screwed shut. He couldn’t handle this. “Think I might have it amputated, it’d hurt less at least.”

When he opened his eyes, Hermione didn’t look half as concerned as he’d hoped. Oh, the feeling was there all right, but as a tiny drop in the ocean of her anger. “You look gaunt,” she said, and it sounded more like a judgement than a worry.

Harry waved away her comment. He found his cleanish mug and filled it using aguamenti again, then took out the vial from his inner robe pocket and shook a few drops in. The shaking came mostly involuntarily.

God, he was going to kill Severus if this turned out to be nothing and he was going through all this pain in front of his friends for nothing… Well, he was going to kiss the man first, and then depending on how that went, he could go either way on the murder.

“That your pain reliever?” Ron asked, nodding at Harry’s cup. “Not taking a full dose?”

Harry looked into the mug, watching the potion mix in, then drank the whole thing. He placed the mug back down and shook his head. If they’d just give him half an hour to become human again, that would be great. “Love to, my leg’s absolutely killing me.” He picked up the half-empty vial and studied it, rolling the glass about in his hand. His leg was going to hurt no matter what at this point, but everything else was abating. Blood flowed back into his cheeks, and the shaking slowed. He sighed, half in annoyance and half in relief. “Unfortunately, I’m starting to suspect that someone might be poisoning me with it. Don’t suppose her majesty would allow me to investigate  _ that _ , would she?” He flicked his eyes up to Hermione.

Ron stepped forward and tried to snatch the vial, with a half-assed proclamation that they’d soon find out. Harry let the glass drop into his sleeve, faster than his old friend could get there. “I have someone I  _ trust _ looking into it,” he said coolly.

Oof, it felt good to be on the other side of that one. The hurt that crossed their faces almost made it worthwhile. Wanted his trust, did they? Well, tough. They’d gone and bloody lost it. And okay, he’d lost theirs first, and he probably deserved it and he was a total wreck, but turning the tables felt sweet all the same.

“Okay, go on then.”

Hermione wasted no more time. “I told you to stay out of this, Harry. You’re in way over your head, and to be quite frank I'm not even sure you’re up for doing your actual job, never mind anything more complex,” she began. “This investigation has been ongoing for almost a year, and we’re potentially  _ weeks _ away from having everything we need to make arrests. And then you come swanning in asking questions, making everything we’ve done so far look all the more suspicious. As we speak, there are probably paper trails being burnt and operations being driven further underground, putting the investigation back months.”

“Oh, fuck off ‘Mione,” Harry said, throwing open Burkin’s auror record where it still sat on his desk. The man’s gently smiling face stared up at him in black and white. “The trails were burnt long ago. This lot’s so clean they sparkle like bloody diamonds - and I’ll bet Briggs is the squeakiest of the lot.”

“Briggs  _ is _ clean,” Hermione retorted, her voice clipped. She reached over his desk to take the file, but Harry snapped it shut. “That’s why he’s been helping us in our-“

They had  _ Briggs  _ helping them to investigate himself? Oh, that was so… God, he couldn’t help it. He laughed. He laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes, until his head ached. “No… No wonder it’s taken a year to get the case together.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ron growled, then turned to Hermione with a softer voice. “He’s bloody cracked. I know you don’t want to see it, but just look at him. He can’t help us - he can’t even help himself.”

Harry didn’t have the energy to laugh again, so he leaned back in his chair and sufficed with a single huff. “You were right, I don’t know anything. Nothing at all about auror violence. It’s not like I’ve got witness reports evidencing systemic abuse of power by aurors during unofficial house visits to vulnerable individuals. Nor a testimony of three counts of rape.” Well, that one was true. He had the ashes of an unsigned piece of paper which had once upon a time had three names on it. “And most of all, I definitely don’t have a folder of photographic evidence going back to the second war, with names and dates and reasons associated with bruises, burns, broken bones. All leading up to  _ one man. _ ” He held up his index finger. It wavered and blurred in his vision, but he ignored that and finished triumphantly: “Addison Briggs.”

“You’re mad,” Ron accused.

Harry turned to him, but before he could answer his stomach lurched again and he doubled over, retching air. Shit, fuck. He’d thought the potion was helping, but suddenly he felt worse than ever.

He saw Ron move to stand by Hermione. “Just look at him,” he hissed, as if Harry couldn’t hear.

Yes, everyone come look at Harry Potter. Why ever not. He dropped back into his chair, couldn’t remember when he’d stood up. Fuck, what horrible timing this all was. If only he could have stood it out for another two days.

“I’m not mad,” he said, rubbing his temples. “You’re blind. You’re both fucking blind, honestly. What evidence have you actually been collecting in the last year? I’ve been looking into it less than a week and I’ve got bloody pages. Folders. Confirmed victims, patterns to chase up and a motive to boot. What the fuck have you been  _ doing _ ?”

Hermione’s tone was soothing when she spoke again, and Ron had a comforting hand on her lower back. “Harry, I think it might be time-“

“You’re not firing me,” Harry answered. He could tell that’s what this was. She didn’t believe him. They thought he was a lunatic, the two of them, and they’d take his job away from him and tell him it was for his own bloody good.

“Harry listen to me, if you could just see yourself. You can’t even stand,” Hermione argued. Ohh, she had her concerned voice on  _ now _ , didn’t she? Well, it didn’t matter.

Harry took a piece of parchment, scribbled a few words on it as Hermione told him how he’d been very stressed lately and maybe some air and free time would help. Then he took the ballbox out of his pocket and watched his friends as he pushed the ball in.

_ Blorrrp _ .

They both reacted with confusion at the sound, nothing like Briggs. Well that was something at least. He wasn’t sure what it meant, if anything at all, but at least they didn’t recognise the noise.

“Don’t worry ‘Mione, I don’t plan on sticking around.” He stood up, wobbling, and rounded the desk. Ron took a step in front of Hermione as if to protect her from Harry, which said more than any words could have. Harry held out a hand with the parchment, and Ron took it, reading it before passing it back to the Minister of Magic.

_ Fuck you. Fuck you both you back-stabbing bastards, and fuck the Ministry as well. _

“I resign,” Harry explained, just in case they didn’t get the nuance. “Would you authorise the floo for me, just for the occasion?”

There was a fireplace in his office. He always ignored it since it was of an ancient type that couldn’t be regulated, and had thus been deemed a security risk and blocked up semi-permanently. Only Hermione and Robards, and possibly one or two other people in the entire ministry had the power to unblock it. He’d put in a few requests for renovations over the years, quoting his leg as a reason for needing a personal floo in his office, to no avail. It had just become part of the wall after a while, but not now.

Hermione nodded tiredly and waved her wand. A pale blue stream of light poured into the fireplace, pooled there for a moment and then shot up the chimney breast at her command.

Harry let the potion vial drop out of his sleeve into his hand, and downed the rest of it. Partly, this was to show his ex-friends that he didn’t give a shit, but mostly it was because the potion actually worked and he couldn’t face travelling by floo with the pain he was in. He couldn’t face what he’d just done.

He stepped inside, and made sure he was looking Ron right in the eye when he said the pass-phrase.

“I, Harry Potter, do solemnly declare Slytherin to be the superior Hogwarts house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The difference in emotions between the start and ending of this chapter gives me bruises in my soul xD Thanks again to everyone reading, and especially to those who've been commenting. Can't believe it'll be over soon, but I'm also excited to work on the sequel and maybe even a threquel. Apparently I love to plan mysteries, and the next ones will be more mysterious than this one.


	17. Chapter 16

He stumbled out of the fireplace, into absolute darkness. He didn’t even realise he was falling until he hit the wall - no, the floor. He groaned, curling up. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!

“Potter?”

Something hit him in the head, then a moment later Severus was around him, pulling him up into his lap, feeling his forehead. “You’re cold. Can you stand?”

Harry nodded. “I- I think so. Yeah.” He pulled his way up Severus’ shirt to a sitting position, and gripped the man’s shoulder to hold himself steady. “I took the full dose, Severus,” he whispered. “It was unbearable, I took the rest of it.” He giggled, though he didn’t know why.

Severus helped pull him to his feet. “Can you stand?” he asked again.

The shaking had subsided, and Harry was feeling more stable. He pulled away slightly, testing his balance. That was better too, but he could feel beads of sweat crawling down the back of his neck. His exhaustion was also draining away, making him feel less sluggish and pained with each passing second. “Yeah,” Harry answered. “Yeah, I’m coming round now. I just…” He thought about the confrontation with Hermione and Ron, and moaned. Fuuuuck.

“Alright, let’s get you to bed.” Severus tried to pull him away from the fireplace, but Harry was rooted to the ground. He held onto Severus’ shirt to stop the man from going anywhere.

“I lost my job,” he said hoarsely. “I mean, I walked out. And I was fired. And Briggs-” Oh God, Hermione… She was so bloody intelligent, but she was such an idiot as well. No intuition to speak of. Ron though? Ron was supposed to be the opposite, the one with the good gut feeling, who didn’t trust too much in what he saw on paper. They were well matched in that way, but maybe they’d met in the middle too much and ended up mediocre in both.

“They didn’t believe me,” Harry said. He felt stupid tears welling up, and at the same time another involuntary giggle rose in his throat. They’d not been close friends for a while now, and they’d been investigating without him, but… They hadn’t even listened. Not for a second, not even slightly. His voice broke. “They didn’t believe me, they think I’m mad. I’m not crazy, I know I’m right. I know it, Sev. I… I don’t- I mean, I  _ feel _ crazy, but-”

“It’s alright, Potter,” Severus said, pulling Harry into his chest. “You are crazy, you’re an absolute lunatic but that’s nothing new.”

“I can’t do it anymore,” Harry whispered into Severus’ neck. “I can’t- I can’t deal with it all.” What could he do now? He’d failed, he’d finally stepped off that final cliff and fallen into the abyss, and here he was standing in the dark. No job, no case, no friends and no team.

Briggs had won, and there’d never even been a fight. Harry never had a fucking chance.

He finally let Severus lead him away, and he was taken not to the sofa but to what felt like a small bed, possibly in a different room. “I’m going to get you another calming draught to help with the effects of your new pain reliever. Sit here.”

“What effects?” Harry said numbly. He didn’t feel good like yesterday, not manic and babbly. He felt shit, totally shit.

Severus didn’t answer, maybe because he’d already left, Harry couldn’t tell. He sat and tried to calm his shuddering breaths by rapping a knuckle on the wooden bed frame,  _ rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat - ra-ta ta-ta - rat-tat-tat. _

His brain felt stuck in a loop and he just couldn’t break free of it. Briggs had won, he’d won. He was going free. He had everyone wrapped up in his perfect auror image. His team followed him with almost fanatical fervour and the upper management were properly fooled. What could he do? He wasn’t even an auror any more. Briggs had won...

Harry wasn’t an auror. Oh Merlin, he was unemployed. He put his head in his hands. He was just going to be an alcoholic unemployed man until he died prematurely of liver failure, and no one would find him for months because no one cared any more. Briggs had won.

He felt tears again and he tried to force himself into anger instead of despair, but it didn’t work. He was too thoroughly defeated. Shit. Shit shit shit.

He realised in that moment just how fucked up everything was, because he didn’t even want a drink. He, Harry Potter, possible alcoholic of goodness knew how many years, did not want a drink. He just wanted to take his potion, lie in this darkness far away from the world and never leave.

He wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but Severus guided him back to the bed and sat down next to him, making one of the mattress springs ping. He put a hand on Harry’s arm, worked his way up to the hand and pulled it gently away from Harry’s face to place a small bottle in it. “Drink this.”

“I already feel calm,” Harry argued quietly, but Severus insisted and he didn’t feel like making a discussion out of it so he drank the contents of the bottle and collapsed onto Severus’ shoulder.

“Would you tell me what happened?” Severus asked.

Harry shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”

Severus took Harry’s chin and tilted his face up, placed a brief kiss on his lips. “Tell me,” he said.

So Harry did. He told Severus about the abuse against Draco, the comments from Jameson and Harry’s run-in with Briggs after the department heads quarterly meeting. He told him about going to the cafe to meet Burkin, and how he’d been feeling ill and shaky all day. Then about Ron showing up, taking the portkey back to the office and taking the smallest dose of pain reliever he could, and about the short conversation with Hermione.

“I know how I must have looked,” he said. “I can’t blame them for thinking what they did. I’m sick. There’s something wrong with me, I can’t seem to get my head straight and… I must have been a right sight, yeah? Pale, shaking. I couldn’t stand up and then I was almost sick. Rambling on about some conspiracy against Briggs.”

“We’ll get to the root of it, Harry,” Severus assured him. “I found nothing in the potion that could be identified here, but that means very little.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry murmured. He’d not thought the calming potion would have any effect, but his mind was slowing, smoothing out. He just wanted to go to sleep and forget it all, leave it for tomorrow or next week or never.

Severus was having none of it. He stood up, barking for Harry to do the same, and yanked him to his feet. “It does matter. Your health matters, your life matters. Wake up, Potter.”

Harry sighed. “I don’t want-”

Severus shoved him. He  _ shoved _ Harry, who stumbled back with a surprised cry. “Can you stand up for yourself, Potter?”

Harry had just gotten his balance back when Severus shoved him again, this time from the side. Harry spun, holding out his arms to stop himself from falling, to grab something. He might have lost his bearings, except he hadn’t any to begin with. He hit his fingers on the corner of something, maybe a chest of drawers or a desk or- Severus pushed him a third time.   


“They’ve pushed you down, and you don’t care? Well that’s all bloody fine and dandy for you,” Severus said. His voice was brimming with anger, but he didn’t shout. He never shouted. Harry managed to catch his arms before the man could push him again, but Severus only used the opportunity to push Harry into a wall.

It was Briggs all over again, there was nothing he could do. “Severus-”

“What about the others?” Severus said, not giving Harry any time to speak. “You have the privilege of being able to fall over and live out the rest of your life in melancholic peace, but what about us? What about Draco?”

“He can look after himse-”

Severus pressed him harder. “If he could protect himself then there would have been no need for a case at all,” he spat. “So what about Draco - will you protect him? Will you protect  _ me _ ?”

Harry shook his head. “I…”

“Will you do your damn job and protect us all?”

Five heartbeats passed. Severus’ tone gentled, as did the pressure of his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Will you be Harry Potter, the idiotic Griffindor who couldn’t stand up for himself against a flea, but who will meet death itself to defend his friends?”

“I’m not that Harry anymore,” Harry replied quietly. His legs weakened, making him slip until Severus pulled him back up, holding him close. “Hermione…”

“Your childhood friends will come around. They will find the truth, or you’ll force it on them.”

“You sound so sure,” Harry said. Their foreheads met and they leaned against each other, breathing in the darkness. “How can you know?”

Severus exhaled, almost a laugh. “Because you are a fool and fools cannot be defeated, because they are too foolish to know when they’ve lost.”

Harry nodded. Of course it had to be some stupid reason like that, but somehow - maybe he really was the fool Severus said he was - it was working. He was down, he was beaten, he was out of a job and the only person who believed his words was a blind recluse who brewed beer but drank whiskey.

On the other hand, he’d been tip-toeing around Hermione’s rules all week, which had blocked him from telling his team or doing any real investigation work. Now he didn’t have to toe the line. He could get arrested, of course, but that in itself was an opportunity to be a first-hand witness. He had no team - what would happen to them, to the investigation? Would they move the Wizengamot hearing to another date? He doubted it.

He knew what to do. “I need to send an owl to Headmistress McGonagall,” he said. “Is there somewhere I could use a light to write?”

“Of course,” Severus said, pulling away from Harry. A few seconds later, a door clicked shut. “This bedroom should be fine, I keep the ingredients out there. I believe there should be a muggle light switch here somewhere… Ah.” There was a soft click. “Is that better?”

It was still utterly dark. Harry doubted that Severus had ever paid an electricity bill. “Yeah, it’s great thanks.” He pulled out his wand and wordlessly cast lumos, then blinked against the sudden light.

The room was smaller than he’d thought, and contained only the bed and a chest of drawers that came up to his hip. There was a small wooden box by the window, which was blocked up with what looked like tar, and a twisted glass vase on the chest of drawers, the only coloured thing in the room - green, of course. “Do you have any paper?”

Severus walked to the windowsill and felt along it until his fingers hit the box. “In here,” he said, opening it. There was a dictaquill, a bottle of black ink and a few scraps of parchment. Good enough for Harry.

He picked up the quill, checking the nib for old dry ink. It was clean. “Severus,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for… That you had to see me like that. And thank you.”

Severus bowed his head, accepting the apology and thanks, and Harry took the opportunity to steal a kiss. “I mean it,” he said.

Harry dictated a letter that was probably longer than needed, and after sending the owl off, there was nothing to do but wait out the rest of the afternoon. Severus stayed with him the whole time, though there must have been something else he could have spent the time doing. Harry took the opportunity to study the man in the light in a way he hadn’t done before they’d gotten… Like they were.

There was a kind of grace to the way he moved, a deliberateness to every inch. The only time he seemed to fidget at all was when he rubbed those unconscious circles on Harry’s skin, the rest of the time he sat perfectly still unless some outside stimulus forced a reaction out of him. He didn’t blink often, and the more Harry watched, the more he was convinced that the man had to be some kind of weird doll.

“Do you dance, ever?” Harry asked. They were lying side by side on the cramped little bed, Harry on his side and Severus on his back. Harry had started to feel nauseous again about an hour ago, and Severus had insisted that he lay down.

“No.” Severus replied instantly, without deepening his ever-present frown.

“What’s your favourite food?”

There was a long pause, and Harry thought the man might not answer, but then: “Gammon steak, I suppose. Egg, not pineapple. I have no idea from whence that tradition came.” He didn’t smile at the thought of his favourite meal, but there was a slight depression in his brow as he said the word  _ pineapple _ .

“You have pretty eyes,” Harry tried next. That earned him a mighty scowl and an elbow in the ribs.

“You’re testing me,” Severus replied. His tone was annoyed, but his ear turned red. Harry grinned.

He leaned forward and kissed the corner of Severus’ mouth. Severus turned, allowing him a second kiss. The tension in his brow lessened, taking away the frown for a moment and Harry leaned back to appreciate it.

Severus caught on quickly though. “That’s it,” he said, getting up from the bed. “Your right to light is hereby revoked until further notice.” He clicked off the light switch, which of course did nothing, and stomped back to lie on the mattress again.

Harry quickly got too tired and achy for playing games though, and by seven o’ clock, even Severus said it was probably best if he just took the damn potion.

“I don’t understand what it could be,” Severus murmured, more to himself than Harry, who wasn’t really listening. “I can think of nothing that could bring on such a strong dependence so quickly. It’s been  _ one day _ , for heaven’s sake. Perhaps we erred in allowing you to take-“

There was a squawk from the other room. “That’ll be Minerva,” Severus said, cutting his own thoughts off. He shook Harry’s chest slightly. “Are you feeling up for a trip to the sofa?”

“Sorry,” Harry said through a pounding headache, “but I think we’re going a bit further than that.”

Severus looked out of place at Grimmauld Place. Uncomfortable. He sat on the old sofa while Harry paced restlessly. He’d taken a shower, but he was already sweating again. They’d brought a bottle of whiskey with them, with the working theory that Harry was going through withdrawal on top of everything else, but it didn’t seem to be helping.

The fireplace whooshed, and Harry jumped back as Zantia stepped through. Merlin, it was good to see her face. Someone he knew he could trust. They grinned at one another, and she pulled him into a hug - not something either of them was known for.

“You look like shit,” she said by way of greeting, pulling back and dropping a large sports bag onto the armchair.

“So everyone keeps telling me,” Harry replied drily. He followed her gaze to Severus. “Ah. Allow me to introduce you - Severus, this is Zantia. My best, though I suspect she’ll soon be in the more capable hands of Headmistress McGonagall.”

Zantia grinned again, though neither of them raised their hands to shake. “Thanks for the recommendation letter,” she said, and turned to Severus. “Isn’t it great when they give you the ammunition of their own volition, sir?”

Severus nodded, understanding what Harry couldn’t, and then Zantia turned to open her bag, ignoring his confusion.

“ _ A woman of outstanding moral courage, who I will sorely miss both as a colleague and a friend,” _ she quoted, and Harry groaned.

“You weren’t supposed to read it,” he said. Gods, what else had he written? She’d never let it go. “Employers always say more than they mean, don’t let it get to your head.”

She turned again, brandishing a book with notes and papers sticking out from all angles. “Oh, right,” she began casually. “I suppose if I’m not really the  _ most intelligent and insightful auror ever to have graced the Ministry building with her presence _ , then you won’t want to see my notes on how the thefts were committed? Shame, I had it all worked out and everything…”

Harry scowled. “I never wrote that.”

“You implied it,” Zantia retorted playfully. Well, that was true enough.

“Alright, alright,” he acquiesced, thumping down onto the sofa next to Severus. The man sat stiffly, which Harry supposed was justified considering his experience with aurors. Harry put a hand on his arm, something Zantia didn’t miss but also refrained from commenting on. “You are the most intelligent and insightful auror I ever met. Genuinely. So spill.”

She moved her bag to the floor and sat in the armchair, book on her knee. “Just a minute. I don’t wanna have to repeat myself when the others get here.”

Severus stiffened.

“The-? Zantia, you didn’t,” Harry said incredulously. “They can’t be here, I got  _ fired _ \- for being a lunatic conspiracy theorist.”

Zantia sat back in the chair, waving a hand at him. “You got fired ‘cause you stepped too close to the truth, sir. Harry.”

He rubbed his forehead, massaging a new throb of pain there. Fuck, this was all he needed. “I wanted to keep them out of it. Fewer people involved, the less risk-“

“You don’t trust them,” she accused.

“I do,” Harry responded hotly. “Of course I do. And I care about their careers, Zan. This could be the end for us all if it goes wrong.”

“And I think they should at least have a choice in the matter. They’re your  _ team _ . You’re a shit boss, don’t get me wrong, but we’re as loyal to you as any of those tossers in homicide are to Briggs.” She leaned forward as she spoke, working herself up. “You think anyone else would have given me a chance? I was grateful just being a General, thought I couldn’t expect anything better as a werewolf, but you saw past what I am. You didn’t care.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Harry responded, still massaging his head. His fingers were already starting to shake yet again. This poison was gunna kill him, he was sure. “What’s being a werewolf got to do with it? You’d have got picked up by someone, even if-“

She clenched her hands around the book tightly. “No. I wouldn’t. You don’t… Ugh, you don’t know what it’s like, alright? Just trust me. The only times anyone paid attention to my work was when they were looking for reasons to get rid - and I’m not the only one.”

“Mosser hasn’t set a single thing on fire since he joined,” Harry said defensively.

“You hired a werewolf and an arsonist?” Severus muttered. “You really are a lunatic.”

“Severus,” Harry said admonishingly, gripping his arm tighter for a moment. He really wasn’t one to judge.

“No no, he’s right,” Zantia pointed out. “My file’s bloody full of disciplinaries, anger management courses failed. No one in their right mind would have picked me, but you did. Mosser’s the same. He was months away from being fired, did you know that? His whole life was unravelling, spiralling away and you threw him a line.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, so he sat back and closed his eyes. He could barely remember hiring Mosser. An angry young man, picking him was probably more an act of self-sabotage than anything so noble as Zantia assumed. It all was. He’d been setting himself up for failure from the start, but somehow it had worked out for the past few years.

Until this week.

Before he could think what to say, the floo went off again and he opened his eyes to see Mosser and DeRobles carrying a big box between them. A folder crashed to the floor as they stepped through, making Severus tense and spilling case papers all over the carpet. Tina stepped through behind them, holding an equally messy box of loose papers. They’d obviously packed it all up in a hurry.

“You can’t bring those here,” Harry groaned. Taking confidential documents out of the ministry was a level two offence, which could easily land them instant dismissals or even jail time.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not the boss of us anymore then, isn’t it?” Mosser replied merrily. That man was only happy when he was breaking rules. Harry should’ve seen it coming.

“Mr Clueless is covering for us,” Tina said, putting her box down and then pushing her spectacles up her nose.

Good, at least they’d left one liability behind. Then again, was it really safe leaving the only gay one on his own?

Mosser and DeRobles put their box down, and all eyes turned to Harry - and Severus, who seemed to have closed down entirely.

“Ah,” Harry breathed. He should… “Uh, right. You probably all recognise Severus. He’s helping me with a suspected poisoning.”

“Who’s been poisoned?” Tina asked. “Wouldn’t that fall on homicide?”

Harry grimaced. “Me, actually. We think, anyway.”

Mosser grunted. “No wonder you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied. Was  _ everyone _ going to point it out? He turned to Severus, though the man wouldn’t know where he was facing. “Sev, this is my team. I trust them, alright? The one that sounds like an arsehole is Mosser, and the sensible wizard is DeRobles. You’ve met Zantia. Tina’s the last, she’s nice. They all are.”

Severus didn’t relax, but Harry wasn’t sure he could expect it so he turned back to his team. “Zantia, you ready to explain?”

“I think you should tell everyone what you told me first,” she responded.

“You didn’t?”

She grinned, nodding at the other three where they stood in an uncomfortable group by the fireplace. “They don’t know shit, but they came anyway.”

Harry’s chest swelled with- something, an emotion. It was unfamiliar, so he assumed it was one of the good ones. Pride, maybe?

So he got them to grab chairs and the long table from the dining room, and told them everything. They didn’t interrupt, even though his teeth started chattering. By the time he was telling them about getting fired, he was living the experience right in front of them. Severus put a hand on the small of his back, the first time he’d moved since the others arrived.

“It might be time for another dose,” he murmured.

“You’re not still drinking the potion, are you?” Tina asked, sitting straighter in her chair.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, struggling with his muddy thoughts. He needed the pain reliever. “I don’t know. Yes,” he said, leaning on his elbows with a sigh. He glanced sideways at Severus. “We haven’t… spoken about it, but I think it’s obvious by now that this isn’t alcohol withdrawal. For whatever reason, someone at St Mungo’s has been dosing me up, maybe for a long time - and this week they increased the concentration.” He balled his fists up in his hair, cursing. “I knew Summs was acting weird.”

“But you can’t just-“

“Yes, I can,” Harry said adamantly. “It’s not ideal, but I can’t afford to spend the next week sweating and shaking it out in a hospital room. The longer I take it, the worse it’ll be in the long run, but I’m going to see this through until Friday.”

His statement was met with grim silence, and they watched him take the potion.

The feeling of relief was instant and immense, and he couldn’t help but sigh with the pleasure of it despite how it might look to everyone else. Shit, it felt good to be human again.  _ Just until Friday _ , he reminded himself. Then it was done, he’d check himself into St Mungos, damn whatever the papers would have to say about it.

“Okay Zantia, your turn,” he said, leaning into the sofa cushions with Severus’ hand still on his back. The ceiling warped as he stared up at it, blinking at the bright light of the ceiling lamp.

“We haven’t got it totally worked out yet, but I was right. Someone’s worked out how to make transiciation work, and they’ve been using it to steal green things. For whatever reason.” Zantia started, opening her book and holding up a note that read  _ Transicius _ . Underneath was a pattern in red ink, possibly the wand movement though Harry hadn’t seen one with so many turns before. “Whoever it is must be pretty powerful. I wasn’t able to cast it myself - I was hoping that you might give it a shot.”

She looked at Harry, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sometimes even he forgot that he was a powerful wizard. He gulped, pulling out his wand. “Sure, you wanna run me through it?”

Zantia passed him the note. “The movement’s necessary but it’s the visualisation that makes it work.”

“Not my strong point,” Harry said. “Imagining things, I mean.”

She pointed to a pot on the mantel. “Just try and move that, you don’t need to imagine anything. Just look at it.”

“And ruin my lovely mantelpiece?” Harry asked, slightly outraged. Zantia rolled her eyes, then went and moved the pot onto an overturned cardboard box.

Harry practiced the movement a few times, struggling with his coordination, and Zantia made corrections from across the room. Severus had gone stiff again, but the hand on Harry’s back was strong and comforting. He could do this. He had to, if only to prove to himself and everyone else that he could still do something right.

Merlin, it was hard to concentrate though. He stared at the pot, breathing deeply, and let the rest of the world fall away.

“Transicium,” he said, waving his wand in the complex star-like motion.

The box rotated and the top shredded with a ripping sound, then the pot fell through.

_ Blorrrp. _

It fell up through the carpet nearby, then tipped on its side and rolled a bit. Harry sat frozen for a moment longer.

That was the sound that Briggs had reacted so strangely to. The sound of the ballbox. He glanced at Severus, but the man didn’t move. He looked about as tense as he had all evening, but otherwise his face was impassive.

Considering that Briggs was the suspect here, Harry decided to keep it to himself and bring it up with Severus later. It wasn’t like the blind man could cast the spell anyway, but he’d at least withheld useful information. More importantly, Briggs had reacted so strangely because he  _ recognised the sound of the spell used for the thefts _ . Surely that meant they were on the right track?

“Weird sound,” he said instead. Tina and Zantia leaned over the cardboard box, inspecting the ragged spiral of warps and tears.

Zantia looked up and grinned. “It worked,” she said excitedly, and grabbed the pot to inspect it. “I mean, I knew it would but this is fantastic. It really worked! Harry, you’re probably one of only two people to successfully cast it in living memory.”

_ Three _ , Harry corrected her mentally with a little frown. He really needed to have that talk with Severus sooner rather than later. Besides which, he was already getting tired. If he could just have a full dose of the potion, he was sure he’d last longer. Think clearer, without this stupid fog clouding up his thoughts after only half an hour.

He sat back again. “It’s late, and I don’t think I’m in for an easy night. As much as I appreciate all this-“ he gestured at the table of papers and files “-it’s probably better if you lot remain above suspicion, yeah? Get it all back to the office, check on poor Al. Do your jobs, but report anything you find to me. DeRobles, doesn’t your oldest work at St Mungos?”

The man nodded. “I’ll give her a visit on the ward tomorrow.”

“Great. Have a good old snoop about, find out what you can about Summs. Zantia, I need you to think of a way we can prove that Briggs has or can cast that spell. Maybe we trick him, some kind of set-up, I don’t know. I just want my bloody bike back. Tina, Mosser, investigate the shit out of Briggs and his team - and don’t get caught, alright? See if you can track down anyone else who might have been mistreated. Ex death eaters and their families, dark creatures, people from the old list.”

They did as told, packing everything back into the boxes they’d arrived with. DeRobles seemed distracted though, stopping to frown at an official-looking parchment.

He puffed out his cheeks, folding the paper up and returning it to the pile, before taking it out again. “Sir,” he said, and Harry quickly looked away and then back, as if he hadn’t been watching all along. “Don’t suppose you could show me where the bathroom is before we go?”

“It’s just down-“ Harry began, pointing to the door, then stopped. DeRobles was giving him a significant look. “Right, you know what? I’ll just- Easier if I show you.”

Severus’ hand clutched the fabric of Harry’s robe behind his back. Harry turned and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to whisper. “I’ll only be a minute, okay? Stay with Zantia. I trust them all with my life, but I trust her with yours. Minerva likes her. You trust her judgement, right?”

After a moment, Severus nodded and let go of Harry’s robe. He squeezed the man’s shoulder.

“Zantia, don’t suppose you’d be so good as to keep Severus company, would you? He’s not too good with unfamiliar places.” Severus shot a dirty look in his general direction at that comment, but Zantia looked pleased. Probably for the chance to gossip and ask Severus all sorts of personal questions. Poor sod.

Harry led DeRobles to the kitchen, and was glad of the open space. The living room was so stuffy, all ancient dusty air. In here at least it was ancient  _ clean _ air. He leaned with his back against the oven, putting all his weight on the left leg even though he wasn’t in any pain. In fact, now that he’d stood up and had a little walk, he felt great. Alert, strong.

“Go on, then,” he sighed. He had a feeling he already knew what the man was going to say.

“Alright. I know you said he isn’t a suspect-“

“He’s not.”

“-and I totally respect your feelings on this, but…” DeRobles took the sheet of parchment out of his pocket, unfolding it. “But since I’d started down the avenue, I wanted to see it through. Thought I might even be able to prove you right, but it kind of backfired.”

He handed the parchment over and Harry skimmed it. Arrest notice, an old style they hadn’t used in years but Harry recognised it for what it was.

DeRobles spoke as he looked over it. “The old thefts  _ were _ investigated. Sir, it was Snape. He was caught red-handed digging up green patio tiles in the Bulstrode conservatory. His confession’s on the other side” - Harry turned over the paper to see a short signed note - “but these allegations never saw the light of day because he was on trial for more serious things.” No need to say what those were, considering that Harry was at the trial.

“It doesn’t mean he’s involved this time,” Harry argued softly, frowning down at the note.

_ I, Severus Snape, hereby confess that I am guilty of burglary and the theft of seven vases, three boxes of various sizes, a kitchen tap, a column, a statue of Salazar Slytherin, twelve galleons’ worth of damaged wallpaper, a wardrobe door, two robes, a single shoe and one set of emerald earrings, as well as the attempted theft of two dozen glazed floor tiles. _

The signature below it was a messy scribble, barely recognisable as such. Harry might have laughed at the ridiculous list of items, if not for the twisting feeling in his gut.

“He has motive,” DeRobles responded, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “Good reason to want revenge, maybe frame the aurors who hurt him.”

Harry scoffed. “I know. But so do half a dozen others, I’m sure.”

“You don’t understand,” DeRobles insisted. “Has he not told you how he was blinded?”

How he was blinded? “The last battle…” Harry murmured. It was an effect of Nagini’s bite, wasn’t it? Some kind of secondary curse. He’d always assumed that.

“When he stole these items, he could see perfectly fine - but by the time he signed that parchment, he was blind as a shroomole.” The auror tapped the messy signature with a finger.

“You’re saying he was cursed in custody?” Harry asked. It wasn’t a shock, not after seeing Malfoy’s evidence, but why hadn’t Severus told him? About the ballbox, or about the curse? The man was hiding things, and Harry didn’t like it. His heart fell to his stomach.

“That’s my guess,” DeRobles answered. “I know you like him, and maybe you’re right to, but we’re aurors, and we can’t ignore the evidence. He shows up out of the blue when you haven’t spoken to him in years, just as this case gets off the ground. He’s a renowned potions master, and suddenly you’re getting drugged up to your eyeballs and he’s the one by your side holding the bloody bottle. He has a history of theft, a motive and- well, I can’t say for sure but I think you know more. The way you looked at him after casting that spell. I’m not blind, you know?”

Harry took in a deep breath and nodded. DeRobles was right, of course. It was suspicious as hell. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. I’ll… I’ll talk to him tonight, see if I can get him to open up. Here, you hold onto this.” He handed the parchment back. Not a great idea to be holding the only non-circumstantial evidence they had while confronting a suspect. “It still feels off to me, but I’m not as thick as people think. Carry on with this, keep digging and let me know what you find. Just… keep it on the down low for now. We’ll get to the bottom of this one way or another.”

When they got back to the living room, Mosser and Tina were gone. Harry saw off Zantia and DeRobles, then went to sit next to Severus, but changed his mind as he drew close and saw the man’s expression.

“Let’s talk about this at home,” he said, taking Severus’ hand. He was pretty sure he’d need the calming influence of the darkness to get through this.

Harry stepped out of the floo into familiar darkness, trying for the life of him to imagine how he could bring the allegations up without looking like he didn’t trust Severus.

He allowed himself to be led all the way through to the bedroom, and for once the silence felt heavy and awkward.

A bed spring pinged to his right. Harry went to sit next to Severus.

“I suppose you have questions,” Severus said, saving Harry the trouble of starting the conversation.

“Yeah. Shall- can we lie down?” He waited for Severus to lie on the narrow mattress before pulling his leg up and tucking himself into the man’s shoulder. He put a hand on Severus’ chest, felt his heart beating quickly. “I know about the thefts, just after the war. And what the aurors did to you. Well, not exactly. Roughly. I, ah, was hoping you could fill me in on the details, and how you came to be in possession of a box that uses the same transportation method as our new burglar.”

Severus shifted, sighing. “I confess, that’s a fair bit more than I was expecting you to know,” he said quietly. “That auror of yours, DeRobles, is quite impressive.”

Harry waited. He wouldn’t get caught up in distractions.

“Reg,” Severus said. “Regulus Black, that’s where it started. Everything - I might even say, in my more melodramatic moments, that it’s where my life started. The parts of it worth living, in any case.

“We weren’t in love, I shouldn’t think, though I came to love him retrospectively after his death. He was every bit as arrogant as his brother, but he was twice as pretty and thrice as intelligent. We took the mark together. Stupid, both of us. He saw it first and convinced me to defect, but I didn’t find the opportunity until much later. Ah, listen to me ramble. You don’t want to hear about our… He was the one who made that box. I had a talent for charms, hexes and potions, but he was the expert at transfiguration. He loved it, the act of making something beautiful out of something ugly.” Severus paused here. “I suppose I was another project of his in that regard.

“The thefts were just a prank. I didn’t steal anything of value. It was a silly joke, something we talked about decades ago.” Cloth rustled as he waved his hands. “We’d go visiting the Malfoy or Greengrass mansions, Bulstrode or any of the others, and have a good laugh about all the  _ green _ we saw everywhere. They took being Slitherin so seriously. We used to joke that when it was all over, we’d go on a tour around the mansions and take souvenirs, keep them in cases on display - come one, come all, to see the stupidity and pride of the illustrious Slitherin house.

“When the war ended and I was finally free, I thought… Why not? It was a bit of fun, a lark. I could almost feel him there with me, peeling that dreadful wallpaper off the wall, laughing along. I had the time of my life for a fortnight, and then-“

“You got caught,” Harry murmured. Severus dropped his hands to hold onto Harry’s.

“I got caught,” he agreed.

When Severus didn’t continue with the story, Harry prompted him. “And the curse? The one that blinded you. That was the aurors?”

“It was  _ Briggs _ ,” Severus spat. They’d spoken about the man before, but this was the first time Harry had heard Severus speak of him with that much venom. He’d been hiding the depth of his loathing, but he shook with it now. “I gave myself up peacefully as soon as they found me. Dropped my wand before they asked, and I let myself be arrested willingly. If I’d only… Auror Briggs already had it out for me. We knew each other as children, both from Catholic families in the same town, and he knew that I was gay. He hated me. He knew I wouldn’t go to prison thanks to the memories I had given you, so he sought to take his own vengeance.”

“You should have told someone,” Harry said.

Severus laughed. “Who? He cursed me in the ministry building, in front of five aurors who were only happy to taunt and laugh along. When I turned up for the trial with bandages over my eyes, half that room must have known I wasn’t wearing them when I arrived. Did anyone speak up? Did anyone question it? No. I’ll tell you what they did - they gave Addison Briggs a promotion to head of department. Tell me, Harry - who exactly was I supposed to tell?”

Harry clenched his teeth. He remembered the bandages, remembered wondering how a snake bite to the neck had resulted in a wound like that. But then magic was magic, he didn’t know everything. He’d just assumed. He really did believe back then that he’d eliminated evil from the world, and that life had gotten better after Voldemort’s death. For everyone.

He knew better now. The world was shit, it had always been shit and it would carry on being bloody shit. He clutched Severus’ shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Severus pulled him in closer, and they lay in darkness for a long while. They didn’t move even when the itchy blood feeling made him tremble.

Auror Briggs would pay for everything. Harry was going to make sure of it. He’d see the man go down, if it took everything he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg I can't believe it's almost over xD I've been writing this for like 5 years haha


	18. Chapter 17

Harry woke up for the sixth time, shaking and retching. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and he lay curled up around the knot of pain in his stomach, forcing Severus to lie on his side right up against the wall.

His whole body was cramping, every single muscle, and his leg  _ screamed _ . “I can’t… God, S-Severus, I can’t do this. I need, I need the damn fucking potion. Shit.” This was absurd. Just his fucking luck, his life. Of course, he should have expected something like this. Everyday fuck-ups were simply not fucked up enough for the boy who bloody lived, were they? 

“I don’t understand,” Severus said, his voice thick and slow as he came round to waking as well. “In only two or three days…” It was the same thing he’d said each time tonight.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s been longer than that,” Harry retorted through gritted teeth. “Summs has been bringing me pain relievers for months. I should have- Shit, Sev. Please, I need… Fuck! Fucking fuck, shit.” He groaned. He didn’t bloody want this.

Cotton swiped across Harry’s forehead and the dodgy little bed rattled as Severus turned over. “Perhaps we made a mistake in letting you continue taking-“

Harry grabbed him by the shoulder. “Don’t you fucking dare say that now, you-“ He grimaced and pressed a hand against the fresh round of cramps biting into his stomach. “You bastard. Take some damn responsibility.”

“I hardly think that giving you another hit constitutes taking responsibility,” Severus replied. He tried to run a clumsy hand through Harry’s damp hair, but the sensation was too much and he jerked away.

It was all too much, too bloody much. “Listen to me,” Harry threatened softly. “I’m not in the right frame of mind r-right about now and- Urgh. I think I’d kill someone for a bit of relief. I’d rather it not be you.”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Severus said simply, dismissively. Harry could almost imagine the man turning his head away, closing his blind eyes in a lazy, unconcerned manner. It wasn’t the way he’d imagined Snape in the past, but this was him now. At least, in the early hours of the morning it was.

Harry took Severus’ shoulder again, balled up his fist in the man’s nightshirt. “Don’t be so-”  _ sure _ . Fuck. He pulled his hand away quickly. What was he doing? He wanted that bloody potion. He wanted… He wouldn’t hurt Severus for it, he’d never hurt anyone - but he could. Oh, he could. He squeezed his eyes shut, though the darkness stayed the same. “How the fuck,” he gasped, possibly for the millionth time. How had it gotten this bad?

He rolled away with a jerk, grunting as he fell off the bed and onto the cold floorboards. His vision darkened for a moment with a burst of pain in his leg. He tried not to cry out, but on top of everything else it was impossible. He barely heard Severus call his name.

He turned his back to the bed, away from Severus. The man in his way, the man whose fault it was that he was like this, who was holding the potion hostage, keeping Harry in pain, in need. It was so unnecessary, a part of him thought. What good was he to anyone if he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t work on the case, because of Severus bloody Snape? If he could only think clearly for a few hours… He dug his nails into the flesh of his thigh, breathing sharply in and out through his nose. It was worse, somehow, when the agony in his leg faded to the same level as everything else. The knowing. The needing. The cramps, sweating and fever, the bitter taste of bile lying against his dry tongue. His eyeballs, scratchy from staring at nothing.

“I need to see this through,” Harry said, minutes or hours later, when another round of cramps had passed. No answer came. “Sev?”

“Hm?” The selfish bastard had fallen asleep again. The prick, the fucking uncaring arsehole.

“How can you sleep!” Harry growled. If not for the fact he could barely raise his arms right now, he’d- he’d… He forced the anger down, away. It stayed. He swallowed. He needed... He couldn’t be another auror going round hurting the people who needed his protection. He could be better than that. He had to be. By God though, he needed that potion.

He tried diverting the anger, thinking of Briggs, and let the feeling swell up in his chest. It was so strong that for a second it overwhelmed the rest, overwhelmed his weakness. “They have to pay for what they did to you. To all of us. Please, just one more day and it’ll be over.”

Severus huffed softly, and the ancient mattress springs pinged dully as he moved. “We each have our curses,” he said. His voice was thick, slow, tired. Harry felt his anger rise again. “Yours are for the most part self-inflicted and yet I am working around them. Please give me the same courtesy. I am blind. It hurts to speak, and I cannot, in even the direst of situations, stay awake for more than six hours at a time. I have barely closed my eyes for the last eighteen. I am exhausted, old and cursed. That is how I can sleep.”

“Well, I can’t,” Harry insisted. The floorboards were hard against his back and a draft swept unpleasantly up the side of his sweat-sodden t-shirt. Everything was wrong, and for once it really honestly wasn’t his own fault.

Severus sighed. Harry’s heart leapt at the defeated tone, and he suddenly found the energy to sit up. “This is against my better judgement,” Severus warned. Thank fuck, thank god, shit. Yes.

Their hands met, frantically on Harry’s end as he grabbed the vial and threw it back.

“Shit,” he sighed. It took a few minutes, leaning against the bed frame without the strength to climb back up, before the cramps subsided. Then he laughed. It was absurd, beautiful, terrifying, how much better he felt. Like himself. Ready to exist. He laughed again. “Thought last week my life had gone to shit, but I really had no idea, did I?”

“Can you get up?” Severus asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before pulling Harry onto the bed by his armpits. Harry collapsed against his chest, limp and exhausted, and lay there breathing for a minute.

Slow to start with, Harry’s brain started running. Thoughts tumbled past, disordered. Like a hamster wheel, moving so fast and yet going nowhere. Hadn’t there been something he needed to tell Severus? It tugged urgently at his chest until he remembered. He should let Severus sleep. He intended to. He would.

He couldn’t help it when his mouth started moving.

“I don’t want to have sex with you,” he said impulsively. It seemed like an important thing to talk about while they were lying here cuddled up in bed together. Just in case. He found Severus’ hand and entwined their fingers. There was no reaction, and he wondered incredulously if the man had already fallen back to sleep.

“I know,” Severus replied, proving him wrong, but close to correct by the slurred tone. He rubbed his thumb in one lazy circle over the back of Harry’s hand. “And I’m sure we’ll find time to talk about it when this is all over.”

Harry smiled into the man’s chest. Of course Severus would understand. Unless he didn’t of course. If he’d poison Harry just to get some sleep, wouldn’t he be willing to lie for the same reason?

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” he added.

“Can we save this until you’re sober and I’ve had at least six hours of sleep, four cups of coffee and a sports massage?” Severus complained. Harry grinned at the grumbling sounds in the man’s chest. He listened to the heartbeat,  _ bathump, bathump, bathump _ . Slow and sleepy like its owner.

“Of course,” Harry replied. He plucked at the thin nightshirt. So many buttons. “It’s just, I don’t think I want to have sex with anyone, you know? Never did. Maybe I’m- Sev, what if I’m broken? I was a horcrux, and then I died and… Some part of me never came back, and now I can’t love anyone.”

Severus sighed, then pulled Harry higher up until he could feel the man’s breath on his face. Stinky night breath. That didn’t matter. Harry smiled, nudged his face forwards until their noses booped together, then laughed. He wished he could see Severus right now. Wished Severus could see him.

“Harry, I’d honestly rather have this discussion after I’ve slept.”

Harry kissed him. “Yeah? Okay.” He dropped his head onto the pillow next to Severus. They lay in silence for an eternity. “Do you think I’m broken, Severus?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Sev grumbled, half sitting up. Harry mourned the loss of his warmth. Another stretch of silence passed, eerie and tense in the darkness. Then Severus spoke again, his voice more tightly controlled, careful. “You are not broken. You are an idiot, and I’m quite sure you won’t be satisfied until you’ve run your entire life into the ground - but in terms of sexualities, anything goes. There’s a word for the experience you described, I’ll look it up tomorrow. You don’t have to, ah what’s the term I’m looking for? Hmm, sexual attraction... There is no requirement for feeling sexual attraction towards someone in order to love them, nor is it necessary to feel romantic love towards anyone at all if that’s how you are. Now please, for the love of whichever gods you imbeciles worship, let me sleep. Just for five minutes.”

“So you’re okay with it?” Harry asked.

Severus’ only response this time was to lie back and hug him tighter. It felt like  _ hours _ before they got up, but it was nice. Harry couldn’t remember being so happy before, so safe.

Once they finally rose, it took two cups of coffee before Severus decided to speak again, and it made no sense to Harry. “Something to do with plants, I’m sure,” he murmured.

“You awake now? I want to send an owl, see if the team has found anything.”

“Let me check,” Severus replied, followed by the soft click of his mug being placed on a hard surface. “Yes, I do seem to be full of regret and misery, so it’s entirely probable that I am both alive and awake. How are  _ you _ feeling?”

“Good,” Harry said. He found Severus in the darkness and wound his arms around the man’s neck. “Great, actually. Can I kiss you?”

“I’d rather wait until you’re sober.”

Harry trailed a finger up to his jaw, his mouth. “Is that a no?” 

Severus sighed. A very familiar sound by now. “Merlin help me. I suppose it won’t make a difference how often we kissed once you come to your senses, will it?”

Harry kissed him before he could talk any more nonsense. This was already Harry, in his senses. It was as sensible as he got.

Severus didn’t hesitate, pulling Harry onto his lap and threading a hand behind his neck. He pressed their mouths together, ran his tongue over Harry’s lip and kissed it again. He tasted of coffee and sugar.

An unfamiliar feeling Harry vaguely recognised as joy lifted through him, making him smile against Severus’ lips. “Sev,” he said, nudging the man’s sizable nose with his own.

“Mm?” He lost some of his eloquence to moments like these, and Harry loved it. Loved being the person who knew that about Severus - things no one would guess.

He pulled back a little, but let his hands roam over Sev’s face. It was different in the darkness. Not angry and ugly, not old. Just a bundle of shapes and textures, the way skin moved over bone under his fingertips. He could feel the high cheekbones, the pointed jaw, the nose. Severus allowed Harry to run his fingers down the nose, and he sensed the tiny crack of an ancient breakage long healed, but never healed right. He went next to the cheeks, round to the chin. As he angled it up, Sev breathed and Harry felt the air brush lightly over the back of his thumb. “I just wanted to say it. Severus.”

“Harry,” Sev said, and pulled him down for yet another kiss. Harry grinned, his heart soaring. He couldn’t remember it ever being like this with Gin. He felt fearless.

“Auror Potter, sir. I have new information you might like to hear.”

Harry leapt up guiltily at the sound of DeRobles’ voice. Shit, he was supposed to be keeping an eye on Severus, not gluing their faces together. He turned and was blinded by the light of the auror’s patronus. Painfully bright, he shielded his eyes and turned towards the far wall again, over Severus’ head - and froze.

He barely noticed the dying light, stuck to the spot as he was. He kept staring straight ahead, even when the room returned to pitch-black apart from the glowing pink doberman-shaped splotch in his vision.

“Harry?” Severus said. “Is everything alright?”

Harry’s heart seemed to beat in slow motion as he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. “Lumos,” he whispered.

“Harry, are you insane, you’ll damage-” Harry didn’t hear the words over a loud, sudden rushing in his ears. Severus found his wand hand, but Harry held on tight to the textured, familiar wood.

“Snape, you motherfucking… You… you bastard,” he whispered incredulously. He stared at the wall, and a mysterious bloody cow stared right back at him. “You… I can’t believe I…”

“Harry please, my ingredients-”

“Your-?” Harry turned to Snape, gaping. The man’s lips were red, reminding Harry of his stupidity, and stoking his fury. “You don’t even fucking brew. Holy shit, you…” He stepped back as the other wizard rose, his face full of feigned concern. How in the world had Harry been taken in by such an obvious lie? Severus had repeatedly told him that he couldn’t brew anything more complex than a calming draught, and there were no light-sensitive ingredients in that. Hell, even if there were he could simply keep them in tinted bottles, charmed jars.

_ Can’t you side-along me? Ah, but you’re not allowed in the house. I have secrets. _ He’d said that, the first night back at the pub. He’d fucking said it. Well this was quite a bit bigger than anything Harry could have imagined at the time.

“I brew enchanted beer, you dolt,” Severus said, stepping forward again but Harry had the advantage of being able to see now. In both the physical and metaphorical sense. He could see exactly how he’s been fooled.

The ever-helpful Snape, who had known exactly who was gay and who was not, who was pretending to have grown up, mellowed out. This wasn’t the Severus Snape he remembered, and so it had to be an act - and who could be better at playing that game than an old double spy?

“I can’t believe I trusted you,” Harry said, half laughing. He stepped round the other side of a table as he glanced around the rest of the room.

Here. A pot.  _ The _ pot. He picked it up, feeling almost like he was moving through gravy. It was so unreal. They were here all along. All that time Harry spent lying with Snape right there - right  _ fucking _ there on that sofa, and the pot was here. The cow had been staring him in the face the entire time - literally staring right at him. He turned the pot over.

_ dH _

He frowned, rotated it, his heart skipping.

_ HP _

Harry bloody Potter. What the fuck. Was he the target, the entire time? Sev- Snape had loved Lilly, right? No matter what he said last week, Harry knew that. He’d been stupid to overlook it.

_ You have your mother’s eyes _ . Green eyes. Green things, all these bloody fucking green objects. He spun, taking in everything. Green curtains, green carpet, green vase, green writing set. Bloody Slytherins, and the man had dared take the piss with that story about Regulus.

“What are you on about? Is… Are you seeing something? Whatever it is, Harry, it’s not real.”

Harry slammed the pot down on the table. How stupid did Snape think he was? He was speechless. Angry. Betrayed.

First Hermione and Ron, now this. Like a bludger in the stomach, he remembered why he’d been pushing them away, pushing everyone away. They hurt him. They always did, and yet he was the last to see it coming every time.

“I can’t deal with you like this. I’m firecalling your friend Zantia,” Severus said, turning towards the fireplace as if he really had that intention. 

“No need,” Harry replied tersely. He pointed his wand at Severus’ back, and the man slowed to a halt as if he knew. Harry was familiar with what Snape must have felt to make him stop, the creeping sensation in your lower back. Despite pushing his anger to the surface, forcing it to smother his other emotions, Harry’s voice cracked. “You can explain it all at the Ministry.”

An hour - a lifetime - later, Harry sat at his old desk cradling his head. Trying to forget Snape’s expression, his hurried, frantic excuses - and then his silence after stepping through the floo.

He contemplated the neat row of vials standing upside-down on his desk. He’d laid them out ten minutes ago. Why was he hesitating? It didn’t matter any more.

They’d found everything. The necklace, the painting, the pot. Harry’s bike was in the bloody bathtub, one wheel resting halfway up the tiled wall.

He felt so stupid.

_ I have no idea how they could have gotten here _ .  _ Harry, surely you believe me. Harry? _

Harry didn’t know what to believe. The man himself had listed off the extensive measures he’d taken to ensure that no one knew where he lived. He’d guaranteed that no one else knew, bar Harry, so how could it possibly be a setup?

And as DeRobles had pointed out, Snape had motive. He had prior history. He was one of the few witches or wizards alive who knew about transiciation, and when it came to opportunity, well… That night at the pub, the one time he had an alibi, Harry had popped to the loo at least once. It wasn’t long enough for someone to run off to the Museum in person, but certainly sufficient for a quick  _ blorp _ .

A chill went down his spine as he remembered the feel of the object in Snape’s pocket, what he’d thought was a potions bottle. Could it have been the pot? Had Harry gotten his fingers on it before he even knew it had been stolen?

_ I’m bloody blind, you moron! _

Well. He didn’t have a counter-argument for that one, but they’d find it soon enough.

They had him bang to rights, as the muggles said. Harry couldn’t stand to talk to him, so he’d taken his potions and then sent the wizard down to an out-of-the-way holding cell with Dowell as he waited for Zantia to get back. She wasn’t here yet.

He looked up as DeRobles rushed in. “Don’t you dare tell me I look like shit,” he warned, before the man could open his mouth.

“I found something else on Snape. I tried your house but you weren’t home. Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Harry hummed. Must be whatever the patronus was about. Too late now. It didn’t matter.

DeRobles sat in the chair opposite, leaning forwards urgently. “Look, I did some asking around and it turns out he’s been testing out his potions on muggles. With beer. He sells magical drugs to muggles, and I’m pretty sure he makes them himself, which means he can brew, and do who knows what else as well. I’m sorry Harry, but I really think he’s the one who’s been tampering with your pain-”

Harry laughed, then, a harsh and bitter sound. He couldn’t help it. That was the very first thing he’d found out about Snape, and now it turned out to be the cherry on top of the cake. Typical. He quieted at DeRobles’ concerned expression. “Sorry. Sorry, I thought you knew - he’s here. I brought him in, he’s downstairs.”

“Shit,” DeRobles breathed. Harry nodded. Shit, indeed.

“I was so stupid. I can’t believe how… how  _ stupid _ I was. I really believed him.” Harry’s desk blurred as tears welled up. He wiped them angrily away. He didn’t want to be bloody crying all the time. He never used to cry like this - just one more sign of how pathetic he had become. It was just… The  _ betrayal _ . Snape couldn’t have gone about it in a more hurtful way if he’d tried. He’d seemed so genuine. Understanding. God, that should have been the tip-off. Severus Snape would never tolerate Harry Potter without an ulterior motive.

“I need you to hold onto the potions for me.” Harry said, and pushed them across the table, toppling them so that they rolled in circles.

DeRobles shook his head, leaning back in the chair with his hands up. “Wh- No. Harry, it’s not over yet. We need you to keep going. We haven’t caught Briggs, and he must still be involved.”

Harry pushed the vials further, though it pained him to do so. He was already feeling so shit - but then, what was new? “The minister will get Briggs,” he said. Exhaustion rolled over him. “Please. I can’t hold onto these, or I’ll… I… I’ll take them all. I can’t stand it. Please just, hide them somewhere before I change my mind.”

“Sir,” DeRobles breathed, shaking his head again. “Sir. I… Where the fuck is Zantia when you need her? Look, I never did any of the people stuff. Counselling training, telling people their parents have died in a horrible accident, that… I don’t do this stuff. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just take the damn potions, I’m not here for therapy.” Harry said. This time the man did as he was told, putting the vials into his pockets.

Seeing them disappear made Harry’s heart ache. What was he doing? He was going to die without them. Or live - living sounded much worse. He was going to live horribly and in a lot of pain for ages. His hand twitched at the thought.

“Have you seen the others?” he forced himself to say. Just a bit more, and then he’d go home and sweat it all out in his bedroom. He’d tie himself up and then throw his wand out the window, if he had to. Whatever it took to get this potion out of his system for good. Then he’d… move to France or something. Leave it all behind, drink wine at lunchtime and offend the locals with his butchery of the language.

DeRobles shrugged. “Saw Mosser this morning, got a message from Zantia saying she was headed down to the cells. I suppose that makes sense, now.”

Harry nodded slowly. They’d get it together. They were a good team, the best really, despite their faults. “Go find her, would you? Give her the potions, or send them down to evidence with everything else. I’m gunna sit here for a bit.”

“Yes, sir.” The auror stood. “But uh, I’ll head over to St Mungos first, do that snooping you asked me to.”

“Good man,” Harry smiled. He kept the expression on his face until the door clicked shut, then slumped down on the table. Damn, he smelled bad. Sour sweat from last night. He’d not had a chance to wash, nor the inclination to, and now the layer of dry salt made his skin itch. Or maybe it was the withdrawal starting again. He should have taken one last dose. A full one, Merlin.

How had it come to this? Last week he was just an alcoholic in denial. Now he was what, a drug addict? He didn’t even know what he might be addicted  _ to _ . How was he supposed to get more if he needed it? He scratched up both arms, trying to stop the feeling that ants were climbing all over him. He didn’t want to take any more of the damn potion, and yet- somehow- with all the pain and the turmoil in his chest, he couldn’t help but think he could use a little something to make it go away.

“You can’t think that,” he muttered to himself. It was one thing being poisoned with a substance and then carrying on until the case was solved, and quite another to take it because he wanted to. Needed to, just to feel like he wasn’t going to drown. “Shit…”

Swearing didn’t help, but he let out a stream of curses anyway, crouching with his elbows on the desk and his hands tugging at his hair. “Stupid fucking shitballs, fuck. Bloody fuckity fuckity fucking shitting arse, you bastard. You total shitting…”

“Well I hope you’re not talking about me.”

Harry’s head whipped up at the voice, but it was only Malfoy. “Sorry,” he sighed. “Bad day. What do you want? Thought you wouldn’t be seen dead at the ministry.” Damn, his hands had already begun to shake again. This bloody drug was going to kill him.

Draco stepped elegantly up to the desk, gave the vacant chair a glance and then decided against it. “I got a call. You have my necklace?”

“It’s only been an hour or two, Ma- Mister Malfoy. You’ll have to wait for it to go through evidence first.” Harry sat back in his chair, smoothing down his hair. It left an unpleasant residue of old sweat on his fingers - just lovely.

The blond man snorted at his effort. “I don’t mean to offend, but I really must say that you look-”

“ _ Don’t _ say it,” Harry warned, wiping his fingers on his trousers. If he heard one more person tell him he looked like shit, he was going to strangle them. “I can’t help you. Even if I was still an auror, which I’m not by the way, I still couldn’t rush evidence through processing. Go up to level two and ask a clerk for form 129-A7. You’ll have your little snake back in three to five days.”

Draco frowned. “Three to five-? Wait, you quit?”

“No. I was fired. Well, I quit first, but only because they were firing me. I’m a lunatic, you see.” He demonstrated as such with a wide grin, which had the desired effect. “That’s what happens when you don’t tow the line, I’m afraid. Now, if you don’t want to end up like Snape, I suggest you stop harassing me and fuck off.”

“Snape?” Draco scoffed. “I didn’t know he owned anything worth stealing. What did they take, an oxidised copper cauldron?”

Fucking hell, was he going to have to tell  _ everyone _ himself? “He was the thief, actually. It’s all a bit fucked up, and I would rather not talk about it if it’s all the same to you.”

“Come off it,” Draco said, laughing. Harry raised his hands helplessly, and the man’s face fell. “You can’t be serious, Potter. Why would he steal my mother’s necklace? He can’t even see it. What would he use it for?”

Harry rubbed his forehead, annoyed. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t want anything more to do with him, okay?”

Draco gaped. “Salazar’s Arse, you two… Merlin, Potter. Tell me you weren’t sleeping together.”

“Define what you mean by sleeping,” Harry retorted angrily.

“Potter, that’s gross,” Draco said, and finally sat in the chair opposite. Harry groaned. Why wasn’t he just  _ going away _ ? “Know what, never mind. I’m not one to judge, but I’ll tell you now it only happened the once and we were very, very drunk.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“I need to see him. Clear it all up. I don’t know what kind of mistake you’ve made, but it really takes the biscuit.” Draco stood up again, and Harry sighed. Thank god.

He waved a hand at the door. “You can try but just so you’re aware, Dowell has orders not to let anyone see him.”

Draco paused on his way to the door. “Dowell?” he asked.

“Yeah, you know.  _ Auror _ Dowell. He’s part of my team,” Harry responded. Draco just gave him a stupid, dumfounded look. “What?”

The man stalked back, this time right the way up to Harry’s chair, and loomed over him. “I must have misheard you. Could you just confirm for me… You couldn’t possibly mean Auror Alisdair Dowell?”

“Do you know of any other aurors by the name of Dowell?” Harry asked sarcastically. He couldn’t think of a good IKEA joke to go with it, but Draco probably wouldn’t get it anyway.

Draco closed his eyes, his fists clenching to either side of his hips. “I’m sorry, but I really think you might have made a mistake. This is Alisdair Dowell, brother of Christacia Dowell?”

“I don’t know his family history, Malfoy.”

“Clearly not,” Draco replied, his voice shaking with anger. “Perhaps you would know her better by her married name, Mrs Christacia  _ Fucking Briggs _ .”

Harry opened his mouth to ask what the fuck Draco was talking about, but then a flash of memory hit him. Something Jameson had said.

_ I wouldn’t h-have any cause to know, except that um his brother in law is- _ And then the man had looked out the door - not to check that no one was listening, but because Dowell was on the other side of it.

“I didn’t- but… There was nothing on his file about that,” he said weakly. He couldn’t tell if the tremors were withdrawal or dread. Maybe both. Oh God. Oh merlin.

Draco’s face contorted with anger. “They don’t bloody advertise nepotism!” he exclaimed, finally losing his temper enough to raise his voice. “We have to go.”

“Wait!” Harry shouted after him as he sped out the door. Grunting, he limped after the man. “Wait for me, you don’t even know where he is.”

Harry picked up his stolen cane on the way out, and only caught up to Malfoy because he’d stopped to pace in the hall outside. They hurried towards the staircase.

“He’s going to die because of you,” the blond said, panicked. “First because you’re stupid, and now because you’re slow.”

“If you can’t stand to wait for the cripple, just cast mobilicorpus and stop complaining.”

Draco halted, and Harry almost crashed into him. “People will think I’m kidnapping you,” he said. “I’ll be arrested, and then we’ll all be worse off.”

Harry stepped up to him with a forced smile. “Tell you what, I’ll do my very best not to scream for help.”

Draco sniffed, then stepped back with a look of disgust. “Merlin, I knew things were bad, but really-” Harry moved up to him again, raising a hand to touch his arm and the blond skittered away another few steps with a squeal. “Fine!” He took out his wand, and then Harry lurched up into the air.

“Try not to bump me into things,” he threatened.

Draco took off, this time at a run, pulling Harry along behind with the charm. “I really think that’s the least of your problems. I knew you had a lot, heard a few rumours, read the papers, but  _ really _ . What on earth turned you to pol resin of all things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Malf- hey, watch it! You almost got me on that lamp. Turn left just up here.”

Draco skidded round the corner, huffing with the effort. Probably hadn’t done a moment of exercise since quidditch practice back at Hogwarts. “ _ Pol resin _ .” He repeated. “Blaise ruined his life with the stuff, and I was living with him at the time. I’d never forget the stench of it.”

“Take the next right. And I don’t know what this pol resin stuff is. I’m not exactly taking it because I want to - another right, I said  _ right _ . Go back! Through those doors.” They rushed down the hall, and Draco mowed straight through the wooden double doors, almost fell down the stairs on the other side. The door slammed into Harry’s side, throwing him into a wall, and they both grunted. “Down. Go down,” Harry urged. God, he was going to be sick. “Two flights. Someone’s been slipping the stuff into my pain relievers and I only found out this week when they increased the dose. Currently going through withdrawal for the seventy millionth time, so if you could be a little bit more gentle with-” He crashed into another wall as Draco rounded the bend onto the next floor.

“Couldn’t they have used cyanide or something? Whoever it is must have met you, because they definitely want you to suffer,” he panted, stopping on the landing to catch his breath. “This way?”

Harry groaned in response, hoping Draco would take it in the affirmative because he really  _ really _ thought he was going to be sick now. They went through another double door, which missed Harry by half an inch this time, lulling him into a false sense of security that lasted all of two seconds.

They were almost there. Harry felt sick. What would he do if they got there and Severus had been hurt? What if he was dead? Panic bubbled through his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He pulled at his hair. Oh God. Oh Merlin, shit.  _ What have I done. _

At the last corner, Draco bumped into someone coming the other way, breaking his concentration. With the spell broken but the momentum still there, Harry was sent flying through the air, then skidding along the shiny tiled floor. He squeaked to a stop, and a voice called out behind.

“Sir! Harry, sir. Are you alright?”

“Zantia. Good,” he moaned, trying and failing to raise himself up onto his knees. He’d failed to notice the symptoms coming on again. Too soon. He had to keep going. “You just saved me from getting kidnapped.”

“Potter!” Malfoy shrieked.

Fine. “Snape’s in danger, help me up.”

Zantia hoisted him up by his arm, all the way from lying down to standing up in one smooth motion. Damn, he thought. An arm wrestle between her and Snape would be quite something. “Sir, I was just coming to find you,” Zantia said. Even before she spoke, Harry knew what she was going to say. His stomach dropped. “I came to relieve Dowell, but there’s no one here. The cell’s empty.”

“This is all your fault!” Draco cried, rushing up to Harry and grabbing him by the lapels. “You’re the stupidest, most ridiculous auror I ever met. I never should have told you anything!”

“Malfoy,” Zantia grunted, shuffling back under their combined weight. “Would you stop shouting and tell me what’s going on?”

“Dowell is Briggs’ brother in law,” Harry said. “I… I didn’t even walk them down to the cell, I was so- angry.” He felt numb, suddenly, as the realisation hit him that Sev was gone. “I was so angry.”

Zantia shook him, and shoved Draco back at the same time. “Snap out of it. Where would they go? We need to find them.”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. What had he done? What had he done to Severus? Oh God.

“Oh my days, you’re as bad as each other,” Zantia growled. She tried to pass him over to Draco, who stepped aside with a disgusted sound. Harry slipped to the floor instead. “You’re unbelievable. Just… just sit right there then, and I’ll go to the homicide hall on my own.  _ Someone _ must know where he is.”

“Wait!” Harry called. He doubled over with a sudden cramp, but managed to keep his head raised. “You can’t go there. Someone needs to tell the Minister what’s going on.”

“You go, then. She’s  _ your _ friend.”

“She won’t see me,” Harry said, gritting his teeth. Amazing timing on the cramps and sweating phase, he griped internally. “It can’t be me because I’m crazy, and it can’t be Draco. You’re the only one she’ll listen to. If they won’t let you see her, just make enough of a fuss until Ron appears.”

Zantia turned in a circle on the spot, one hand to her head in a sign of frustration. She stopped. “They won’t find him in time.”

“I know,” Harry replied. “That’s why I’ll be going to the homicide hall instead. Tell them - Ron, ‘Mione. Tell them I went, and… and that I’m sorry. For being so shit.”

“You can’t even walk,” Draco whined.

Yes, thank you very much for the reminder, Harry growled in his head. Outwardly, he tried to plaster on a smile. “You’ll have to carry me then, won’t you.”

Draco’s face blanched. “I’m not going to homicide! You know what they did to me, I can’t go there.”

Gods, what Harry would do to wring that scrawny little neck. Luckily, Zantia stepped up where he couldn’t, giving the coward a rough shake. “You know what they’re like, better than anyone,” she said angrily. “You know what they’ll do, what they might be doing to him right now, and you’re telling me you don’t give enough of a shit to do something about it?”

She let go and took out her wand. “You better not fuck this up, Harry. I swear, if you fuck this up I’ll bite you and lock you in a basement for three years without wolfsbane.” Then she disapparated with a pop, leaving him in the hall with his cramps and a gently whining Malfoy.

“Get me up,” he said. Malfoy turned away with a whimper. Fuck sake. “Get me  _ up _ , or I’ll make sure she turns you as well. If you don’t like the way I smell now, then you’re really going to hate turning into a wet dog every month.”

“I can’t… Shit. Shit!” Draco shouted, his voice echoing down the corridor. Someone in one of the cells called back but the words were indecipherable. At last, he got out his wand again and levitated Harry. “This wouldn’t even be a problem if you weren’t a fucking addict,” he hissed, stomping back towards the stairs.

“Yeah well, sucks for you doesn’t it,” Harry snapped. With any luck, they’d meet DeRobles on the way and he’d be able to grab another vial. Enough to get him through an encounter with Briggs.

Ha. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t face up to Briggs sober, never mind when he was off his face, high on this resin stuff.

His body ached just thinking about it. Another dose would put off the awfulness for a few hours, but more than that he wanted that feeling he had lying in bed with Severus this morning. Even in absolute darkness, he’d felt like the sun was beaming out of his eyeballs. All his problems, all this shit, had just melted away, leaving him free to simply exist. Be himself.

He’d even told Severus about the sex thing, and Sev was okay with it. It was fine, and he’d still wanted to hug Harry and kiss him and hold him so tight against his chest that nothing else seemed to matter. No one had ever held him like that before, and then Harry had thrown it away. How could he have fallen for such an obvious set-up?

“-me which way to go, Potter!”

He blinked, realising suddenly that they were on the fifth floor and Draco was gripping him by the collar. “Wh-?” He came back to himself, looking around quickly. “Sorry, I… That way.” He nodded up the hall to their right. “We’re pretty much there.”

“Do you have a plan?” Draco asked.

Harry’s head felt heavy. He’d get pulled down by the weight of it, he was sure.

“Harry, please tell me you have a plan.”

“I have a plan,” he replied. At least, he hoped he’d think of one in the next two minutes.

“Salazar, I wish I believed you,” Draco grumbled, but he set off in the direction Harry indicated.

They weren’t even close to the hall door before they met their first aurors. A pair of them, standing to either side of the corridor like guardian statues in an ancient temple. The one on the left smirked as Draco approached, but they didn’t obstruct the way.

“I think we’re in trouble,” Harry moaned.

Up ahead, the double doors opened inwards to accept them. Draco didn’t pause his stride, for once showing a bit of courage. “You don’t fucking say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depending on how work goes today, I might get tomorrow's chapter up 10-12 hours later than usual (I aim for like 8-10am UK time) because it's super unedited and this chapter just took me three hours to edit. xD Also Harry you are a fool, a total and utter fool.


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh so this is embarrassing but I miscounted how many chapters I had. xD The story finishes today, but there's an extra update tomorrow, a sort of double-epilogue. Sorry for any confusion, but yaaay you get more tomorrow, and I promise some fluff to make up for all this angst and pain. <3 Thanks everyone for reading and commenting, especially those who have been following along from near the beginning. I super appreciated all your amazing comments.
> 
> _deep breath_
> 
> OK let's do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI this chapter is the reason the fic has a warning for graphic violence, and a bunch of other tags. There is so much upsetting stuff in this chapter that I don't even know what to say. I am broken after writing it, a hollow shell of my former self. xD

The hall looked empty at first, but as they stepped inside, Harry saw them. The aurors stood silently around the periphery of the room, their backs straight, once again reminding him of statues in a temple. Did they think of themselves like that? Only their eyes followed Harry and Draco. He recognised most of them; wasn’t shocked to realise they were from a mixture of departments. He searched the faces for Burkin, but didn’t find him.

“Do you think they’re imperiused?” Draco whispered, levitating Harry closer to hear.

Harry shook his head and sneered. “No,” he answered, loudly enough for his voice to ring about the quiet room. “I think they’re just a bunch of dickheads, actually.” Some of the aurors reacted with scowls or slimy smiles. He carried on more quietly: “Put me down by that door.  _ Gently _ .”

“They’re going to kill us,” Draco squeaked. His face was drawn and pale, all the blood drained out. He almost looked dead already. A walking corpse. Harry hadn’t seen a face like that since the war, couldn’t think of anything to say in response since it was likely the truth. “I suppose I haven’t been enjoying the experience of being alive particularly,” Draco continued. “So it’s not the worst thing that could have happened.”

Harry laughed despite the circumstances, setting off a new round of cramps that shook through him. “I think we’d have made good friends, in another life.”

“I did offer,” Draco griped, “but I wasn’t the right sort, apparently.”

Draco lowered him by the door to Briggs’ office, and Harry clutched at the frame to stay standing. His skin was clammy and tight. His clothes itched all over. His head was pounding, his leg was throbbing and every single joint in his body ached. The cramps took him in a fresh wave, and he retched against the door but nothing came up but bile. It made his eyes water.

A ripple of laughter rose in the room behind, a reminder of how pathetic he was. Dripping with sweat, hunched over and pale, with his hands shaking so much he barely managed to touch the door handle, never mind turn it.

He grimaced, steeling himself. They were welcome to think he was pathetic. A waste of space, reaching the bottom of the long, inevitable spiral he’d been tumbling head over arse down for years. They were welcome to think it - and they were right. He was a coward, a terrible leader and an alcoholic. Something worse now. He preferred the term  _ substance abuser _ to addict, he decided. Less stigma. Not that the papers would care when they inevitably got a hold of the story. They were probably printing it right now. And did he care?

Did. He. Fuck.

That was a surprise. After so long, so many stories - so many bloody  _ problems _ \- he was beyond caring. So he took out his wand, and got a grip for the few seconds needed to open the door to Briggs’ office and stumble through.

His first step hit tile, and though the second felt solid for a moment, he suddenly found himself falling. With his brain so fogged up, he barely had a moment to panic before he realised what was happening. By the time he’d processed the twisting whirlpool of tiles under his foot, what that meant, he’d already flown out the other side, onto the floor of another room.

Harry hit the concrete chin first, and the impact brought stinging tears to his eyes. He gripped his wand tightly to stop it from falling out of his hand.

“Ah, Harry. I was wondering how long-”

The sound was drowned out by a horrifying scream, guttural and wild. Pain hit him like fire, like an explosion. His hands went to his leg, and he screamed again - it was him, the feral screaming was  _ him _ \- as they found only the stump. It was gone. Holy shit, it had finally happened. He’d left his leg behind. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit!

“Burkin, shut him up!”

Someone came and turned Harry over onto his back, but he barely registered the movement. Burkin, the voice had said. Auror Burkin, the one from the cafe.

Holy shit, his leg. His fucking leg. His fingers grew slick with warm… with- oh God. Oh God. Ohshitohshitohshitohshit. 

“Open up,” Burkin said, right above Harry. The figure grabbed at his face, and he struggled but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t close his mouth, couldn’t stop the terror. He was going to die, holy shit he was going to fucking die. Something cold touched his lip, and then he was choking on water. No, not water. It was bitter. Powdery.

Thank fuck, a part of him thought, swallowing the potion down before he could drown in it. A large part. Anything to suppress this pain. It washed over him, so strong he lost the room, the feeling of the floor under him and the face leaning over his.

His vision brightened as it passed through him, and for a moment he was in a weightless realm of white. Then someone started slapping his face.

“-tter. Potter. Wakey wakey, Potter…”

Were they talking to him? Harry moaned as a face swam into focus. It was that… guy. The auror, the one from the cafe who got him into trouble with Ron. “You,” he said groggily. He tried to concentrate, but the man’s features moved around on his face. His mouth swam up towards his eyes, so strange… So strange… Harry raised his wand hand, but it was empty.

“Feeling good there, pal?” The mouth moved out of sync with the words coming out of it.

Harry nodded, dropping his hand. “Yeah I’m… I’m good.” So fucking good. The pain was gone now... He frowned, trying to remember why he’d been in pain. Surely he’d never felt anything but this? Like floating on a cloud - no, no no. Like- like being a cloud. He felt almost like he could dissolve into the air, becoming nothing more than mist.

His leg, that was it. A bubble of pressure built up in his little cloud chest, and it burst free as a giggle. “My leg fell off,” he laughed. Just like that! Boop, leg gone! Maybe his other one would fall off next, wouldn’t that be awful? He was going to die. He laughed.

“Get him up!” barked another voice. It was a very grumpy voice, so Harry quickly put on a solemn expression. It was important to be serious in front of grumpy people, or they got even grumpier.

Burkin picked Harry up by his armpits and shuffled him along the floor to rest with his back against a nearby wall. Harry took a sniff of the man’s neck and then giggled again. “You’re maths,” he said. “Wait, no. Not maths. Sums! You smell like sums.”

“Thanks,” the man grunted, moving a wooden crate up against Harry’s left shoulder so that he wouldn’t slump back to the floor. So thoughtful. Harry smiled at him.

“Bloody hell, how much did you give him?” the grumpy voice asked, and Mister Mathematical turned away from Harry. Such a pity. He had a kind face, friendly eyes. Sad eyes.

“Enough to make me happy,” Harry sang, tapping his hand on the floor. “Even though my leg fell off.”

Grumpy Pants was standing next to a big black chair, and he did not look happy at all. Even though his face was handsome and strong and masculine, Harry shook his head sadly at the sight. He tried to remember something from a book he’d read when he was little. Well, from a few pages of a book that Dudley had destroyed. Oh!

“A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly,” he informed Grumpy, remembering the lines. “You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.” There. Now that the man knew, he’d try to think lovely thoughts and then he would be handsome for real. Harry smiled, pleased.

Grump only scoffed though. “Wonky nose? I think you must be talking about your boyfriend here.”

Harry frowned. He didn’t have a boyfriend, did he? That seemed like the sort of thing he’d know about. Boyfriends and the like. He tried to think of any boys he might have dated, but nothing came to mind.

The black chair moved.

“Severus!” Harry said, grinning. “I was looking for you.”

“Well done,” the chair croaked. It had a cut, swollen lip, and a bump on the side of its cheek. This annoyed Harry, but he couldn’t think why. “It comforts me greatly to know that I won’t be the only one killed by your stupidity today.”

Harry smiled. Severus was so nice. “I love your voice,” he said, tipping his head wonderingly to the side. “So gravelly, like smoke. Gravel and smoke. Smavel - no, groke.”

“Shut up,” Mr Grumpy said sharply. He evidently didn’t want to know about Sev’s grokey voice, or how brave he was, or any of the rest.

“I like his courage the most,” Harry sighed. “Or maybe his eyes. Have you seen them? Like looking up at the night sky in the middle of nowhere. No pollution, no clouds. Only stars.”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Grump said. “Burkin, fix him up.”

“I can’t reduce the dose, sir. He’s already ingested it, I can only give him more.”

“Give him more then!” Grumpy Pants barked. He was like a dog. A big dog.

“You know what else I like?” Harry asked, raising a hand experimentally. It tingled, and his fingers only bent a second after he felt them move. Weird, he thought, giggling again. “I like it when we talk. You… you’d think he’s all macho bravado, internalised ideals of to-toxic masculinity, just cause he’s a massive dickhead! But  _ actually _ he talks about his feelings all the time, and he never tells me I’m stupid.” He stopped there, thinking. “Well he does tell me I’m stupid. But he doesn’t mean it. He always listens.”

“I give in,” Severus rasped. “Kill me, I beg of you.”

“He’s so funny,” Harry snorted.

“Burkin!” Grumpy barked again. Bark bark! Bark bark!

“I don’t- what do you want me to do?” Mathematical said helplessly. Poor man, he didn’t have a clue. He looked all around, lost something maybe, and then before Harry knew it the man’s fist hit him right in the nose.

When he came round the second time, it wasn’t half as nice as the first. Harry raised a hand to his head. His leg throbbed with a distant, cottony sort of pain, and clotted, crispy blood covered his nose and chin. His glasses were still on his face though. It was a good sticking charm. Underappreciated in the realms of field work and general clumsiness.

A pair of warped voices reached him, putting a bad taste in his mouth. He frowned. There was something… Something to do with a dog?

“-said no one was going to die. I didn’t sign up for murder,” one voice whispered urgently. Harry recognised it but couldn’t pinpoint the memory. He couldn’t focus.

His leg…

“What did you think was going to happen when you had that woman put pol resin in his potions?” The second retorted.

His leg. It was… Harry’s eyes snapped open and he let out a cry. His leg, it was- it was gone. He stared down at his blood-stained trousers. The fabric lay flat on the floor from the knee down. Harry gasped, raised a hand to his mouth, but saw that was smeared with blood as well. “Oh my god,” he mumbled, woozy.

He tried to think. Had to concentrate. Oh god. Oh holy mother of shitting fuckballs.

He wasn’t dead yet and the floor wasn’t covered in a pool of red, which meant at least part of the healing mesh was holding on. He wasn’t bleeding out, at least not yet. That was a positive. And it didn’t hurt, except in a distant, abstract sort of way. He raised his hands again. It felt like controlling someone else’s body. Sluggish, surreal. He felt like he could just lie back and close his eyes, and everything would be fine. Except it wouldn’t be fine. None of this was fine.

“Harry Potter.”

He looked up, half expecting to see Voldemort - except he was dead. It was Auror Briggs. Tall, muscular and handsome as ever. Burkin stood next to him, and on the other side Severus lay slumped, tied to a wooden chair.

Severus!

“You drugged me,” Harry accused. His voice sounded slow and stupid even to his own ears, slurred by this odd disconnect between his body and his brain. At least the latter was still working.

Briggs grinned, showing even rows of white teeth: a Witch Weekly smile. “You only just noticed?”

Harry shook his head and the room warped around the edges, making him dizzy. He knew he should be worried, probably scared to death, but his mood was mellowing, evening out. Thinking was so difficult and pointless, when he could just… just exist instead. Melt into the floor.

No, he had to think! He was going to die. Why was that so funny? He was going to die, and so was Severus.

He couldn’t let that happen. He hadn’t apologised yet, he needed to kiss it all better. He’d come to save Severus, not lie here and let them both be murdered. But he wasn’t in any state to do it. His body was made of moths and butterflies, a collection of soft fluttering wings. He should be able to fly, but he couldn’t even stand. He needed time, time for his butterfly wings to cause a storm.

“How... long have you been putting pol resin in my pain relievers?” He asked. He just needed to stall. He’d think of something. Think. Think, think, think! 

“Long enough,” Briggs replied. “If you were hoping for a chat, I’m afraid you lost your chance. We’re running out of time to make the evening papers.”

“Aw, come on,” Harry wheedled, slapping the floor with the backs of his hands. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? At least tell me why, if I’m gunna die anyway.”

“Since you’re going to die, it doesn’t matter if you know, does it?” Briggs countered, but despite his words he  _ was _ talking.

Harry sighed exaggeratedly, then got momentarily distracted by the realisation that breathing kept him alive. He’d always known that of course - but there was knowing something and then there was  _ feeling  _ it. Harry felt it, the oxygen entering his lungs and from there filtering into the bloodstream. It was glorious, genius in design. No. He had to concentrate. Fuck.

“What’s the rush? ‘S not like anyone’s coming to save me,” Harry said. He didn’t have to fake the bitterness. “You took care of that.”

“Come now, Harry. We both know that’s not true. Wasn’t it only last night your little team had their little get together at Grimmauld Place?” Briggs said, walking casually to stand at Harry’s feet. He towered, blocking out most of the light from the room’s muggle lightbulb.

Shit, of course he knew about that. Anything Dowell knew, Briggs knew as well. Alisdair... The clumsy idiot, why hadn’t Harry seen it? When his most useless auror changed seemingly overnight into this insightful, resourceful guy, Harry should have been more suspicious. Why did he never see anything until it was too late?

“They went back, took the case files with them.” Harry kicked his remaining foot in the auror’s direction, but it didn’t make contact. “Because of you. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, and the only person who believed me was Draco bloody Malfoy. Your cronies have him now, I suppose.” Merlin, he couldn’t spare a thought for Draco. All those aurors...

Briggs knelt down, a pitying smile gracing his lips. “Because of me? I’m sorry to say this, but you already had things well in hand before I stepped onto the scene.”

Ugh, Harry hated the man. Hated him so damn much. He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t deny the words. His life was shit, total and utter shit, and that wasn’t down to Briggs. He couldn’t deny it.

“Why me?” Harry asked instead. “Just tell me that. What did I do to piss you off so much?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Briggs answered, picking up Harry’s empty trouser leg with some interest. Despite the resin, Harry’s chest grew tight with fear. “Nothing personal. You just got too involved, started saying the wrong things in far too public a forum.”

“The press conference,” Harry mumbled. But no, that couldn’t be right. “You were drugging me ages before that.”

“Hardly.” Briggs scoffed, and began to roll the trouser leg up in a slow, meticulous manner. “It takes a long time to build a dependence on pol resin, a very long time - but once it’s there… Awful stuff, and the rush disappears so  _ quickly _ . I had you ticking over, on the off chance. In case you got a grip and decided to go after Robards’ job after all. I could never have imagined this particular turn of fortune.”

“You’re working with Robards?” Harry asked. Even after the threat he’d received, he could scarcely believe it.

Briggs laughed drily. “The only work that fool does is dry his tongue on the minister’s boots. He doesn’t give a shit about the rest of us, risking our lives out in the field.”

Harry scrunched up his face in confusion. Why did Auror Briggs not want someone else to take over the office, if he disliked Robards so much?

“I think that’s quite enough chatter now, don’t you agree?” Briggs had rolled Harry’s trouser all the way up to the wound, leaving it open to the air. Harry felt sick. “Burkin, it’s time!”

No. No no no, he had to think of something else, anything, to keep the man talking. He was sobering up more with each passing minute. If he could just  _ think. _

“What about Severus?” he asked desperately. “His dad’s already in prison, isn’t he? For what he did to you.” It was a wild guess, but it made sense. Both Catholic families in the same town. Tobias Snape the pastor, preying on the boys in his congregation. Briggs, decades later, enacting his revenge.

Anger flashed in the man’s eyes, so strong and violent that Harry recoiled - and then Briggs lashed out and dug his fingers into Harry’s wound.

He screamed. The room pulsed red, black, and his ears filled with a sudden, shocking rush of sound. He was hardly aware of Briggs leaning over him, his face so close that droplets of spittle landed on his cheek. “Putting one of them in prison won’t solve anything,” Briggs said roughly. Harry cried out again as the man’s nails dug into his flesh, tried to push the man away but he was a mountain, a rock. “Not while there’s more of them out there.  _ Severus  _ is just like his father - he should have been locked up as well, and they let him teach in a school.” He pressed into the wound a third time, and Harry lost consciousness for a second. Briggs was still talking, still hurting Harry. “-at headmaster was another one of them. They protect each other, and then they come after the rest of us. Spread it around.”

“It’s not a fucking disease,” Harry gasped. There was another voice somewhere in the room, shouting his name. Severus.

“It is, and you’ve got it,” Briggs answered, and then he finally released Harry’s leg. “You’re sick. You know you are. And when one animal is sick, someone has to take it out back and shoot it, for the good of the herd.”

Harry felt sick, disoriented. He tried to think of something to say, some response. Something clever and sarcastic, but all he could do was pant. His wound throbbed in time to his heart beat.  _ Badum-badum-badum-badum. _

“Take yourself out back, then,” Severus rasped. No, no, Sev had to stay out of it, stay safe. If Briggs was here with Harry, then he couldn’t be over there hurting Severus.

Briggs stood up. “Burkin.”

“Don’t,” Severus said, and his voice cracked. “Don’t hurt him.” He could barely talk. What had they done to him?

Briggs stalked over to the chair, and Harry struggled to follow but every tiny movement twitched some muscle or other, sending fresh lances of pain up his thigh. He sobbed, trying again but it only got worse. Wasn’t adrenalin supposed to take care of this? When the cards were down. He lay back gasping, blinking away tears.

He couldn’t catch what the auror said to Severus. The sounds in his own body were too loud. Heart, lungs, pain. “-n’t worry, he- -no pain, just-off to-“

Even without hearing the words, he understood the plan well enough. They were going to kill him with pol resin, make it look like an overdose, and then they were going to hurt Severus again.

Burkin slunk over, pulled a small brown vial from his clean auror robes. The Ministry logo sat proudly on his collar, and Harry felt sick again looking at it. Burkin pulled out the cork and bagan filling a dropper with the liquid inside.

“You don’t want to do this,” Harry whispered, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

“I have to,” the man murmured back.

Harry supposed that was true - Burkin and Briggs would both end up in Azkaban if they didn’t cover up what they’d started. He let out a sigh. “Fine,” he said. He let his head fall back against the wall. The pain from his leg wasn’t easing away at all. “In that case, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Burkin retorted.

“I am.” Harry insisted quietly, closing his eyes slowly. “I’m sorry, okay? I was… I was so caught up in myself and my own misery, I never saw what he was doing to you all. I should have noticed. I should have stopped it.” God, he couldn’t do this. He had to convince Burkin to let him live, or wrestle the bottle from him, or-

Burkin grabbed his chin. It stung where he’d smacked it on the floor, just one more torment for the bonfire. “He hasn’t done shit to us except show us the respect and understanding no one else would.”

Harry opened his eyes again, forcing the man to meet his gaze. It wasn't easy. He was so tired. “He made you hurt innocent people in their own homes.”

“No one’s innocent,” Burkin hissed. “They were criminals. Murderers. Homosexuals. We just couldn’t prove it.”

“And you?” Harry asked. “Are… you innocent?”

Burkin paused, dropper in hand. His expression was more fear than guilt - fear that he might have been found out, that Draco had told someone. Then he shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and then raised his voice loud enough for the other two to hear. “Any last words, Potter?”

_ Not enough _ , Harry thought. What was the man’s damn name? Grim something, Grimsby? Grimbly? Grimslow, that was it. Grimslow Burkin. He tried to look imploring. “Grimslow. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

Burkin’s face contorted into an angry grimace. “You’re such a little shit, you know that? I always thought so. You can’t win by pretending to be noble.”

“Fine,” Harry sighed, raising his head as best he could, ignoring the shrieking messages from his leg, his chest, everywhere. “I’m not  _ noble _ . I’m scared fucking shitless, and you’re going to kill me and there’s nothing I can do.” He tried for a laugh, but nothing came out. “And you know what? I wish I could say this is the shittest I’ve felt but the truth is I can’t wait for it to be over. I’d rather be dead than see this shit show through to the end. Is that what you wanted to know?”

They stared at one another for a long moment, Harry panting and sweating through the pain - and then Burkin glanced furtively over his shoulder and Harry thought he’d done it. Convinced him. Burkin smiled. “You’d rather be dead, huh? Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but that there’s one thing we have in common,” he said.

Before Harry had time to realise what was happening, before he could raise a hand or call out, do anything, Burkin stuck the dropper in his own mouth and gave it a squeeze. He gurned at the bitter taste. 

“No!” Harry shouted, surging forwards to grab the dropper even though it was too late. “No. Grimslow, what’re you-“

Burkin hit him in the throat, and Harry choked, falling back against the wall. He still tried to finish the sentence, to alert Briggs, but his throat wouldn’t let him. He grabbed the man’s robe as he turned away. The fabric slipped through his limp fingers.

“He’ll be annoying for a few minutes, blissed out in ten and dead in twenty,” Burkin informed Briggs, his tone calm and flat. “I’m going to catch some air.”

Briggs nodded to Burkin as he passed, ignoring Harry’s choking words. “Grimslow, why- stop… stop him, Addison. Stop him, he’s-“

Burkin walked out of the small room, turning left out of sight. Gone.

Harry slammed his hands down on the concrete floor as hard as he could, shouting nonsense in his rage and frustration, until the anger couldn’t lend him any more energy. Burkin didn’t deserve his pity, after what he’d done to Draco. He had it coming to him, they all did. Harry told himself that. It didn’t change anything.

He knew exactly who did deserve that fate. A long death, alone, full of the fear he’d given everyone else. Harry’s gaze sharpened on Briggs. The man was speaking in a low murmur to Severus, and though Harry couldn’t make out the words, he could see the hatred, the barely restrained violence in his posture.

Harry tried to cast a wandless petrificus, but it didn’t work. He wasn’t capable of it - warming charms, yes, and lumos, but not that. He could try warming the man to death. A laugh, more like a sob, broke in his throat. He had to get over there. Do something. He couldn’t think what, but it’s all he had. Get to Severus. Save him somehow, even if he couldn’t save himself.

Harry leaned forwards, tried to pull his legs - oh god, his leg - behind him. His strength was growing again, but so was his ability to feel pain - and shit, he felt it alright. He clenched his jaw to stop the screaming, but all he managed was to scream through his teeth. Briggs ignored him, just a dead man howling his last breaths.

Harry had to get to Severus.

He clawed at the concrete, couldn’t find anything to hold onto, but dragged himself forward with another guttural howl. The room darkened and his hands went numb for a flashing second, but he held onto consciousness.  _ Holy shit, oh my god, shit _ . 

He couldn’t think, didn’t need to think, kept crawling closer. His screams diminished to grunts as his nerves gave out, or maybe it was adrenalin finally reaching him. He could barely even feel the leg now, although every other part of him burned. His skin was on fire, and sweat soaked his t-shirt and robe. His face scraped along the rough concrete floor, as he had no energy to waste on lifting it.

He was almost within arm’s length of the auror’s foot when Briggs decided to pay attention to him again. As the tall man turned with a sneer, Harry saw a glinting knife in his hands. “No! You- Severus!” Harry dragged himself towards the chair. He couldn’t- not yet. Not now! He was so close.

Before he could reach Severus, Briggs kicked him in the side. The room lurched sickeningly as he rolled onto his back. There was a long shadow in the far corner, the Grim Reaper finally coming to claim him. Briggs stood over him while brandishing the knife in a faux casual manner, his expression anything but collected.

Harry was breathing heavily. Now that he was on his back again, he could see more than just the concrete floor. As he turned his head from side to side, looking for something - anything - to defend himself with, his gaze got stuck on the trail of blood leading from the far wall. Harry’s skin flushed all over and his already racing heart started a desperate, uneven rhythm.

He was going to die. He’d been thinking it the entire time, but now he knew. He absolutely knew. Why did it always have to be this way? Couldn’t he, just once, defeat the bad guy and not have to die in the process?

He was so exhausted, so done, that his stinging eyes produced no tears. Severus was dead, and Harry was next. Even if he somehow managed to get out of here, he didn’t have time to get to St Mungo’s. He didn’t have his wand, and he had no idea where he even was. He’d never even get out of the building.

The room went grey. Grainy like an old tv set in the split-second before it was switched off. He was panicking, he realised in a disconnected sort of way, going into shock.

“-supposed to be dead already, where’s that incompetent fool gotten to.” Briggs said above Harry, whose vision speckled back into colour from the middle outwards.

“Severus,” he whined.

“Oh I’ve barely begun with Mr Lover here, don’t you worry. He can’t die until we reach the scene of the crime - your crime, actually. Can’t have his blood poured all over the floor down here, when we need it up there.” Briggs said, but Harry barely heard anything except that Severus was still alive.

He was  _ alive _ . Harry let out a breath. “Sev.”

Briggs stepped into view, and Harry watched his well-kept leather shoes follow the trail of blood to the far wall. “I must say, your tolerance for the stuff is really quite impressive, greater than we prepared for.” The man knelt down and picked something up, then walked back with a frown. Harry fought to stay conscious.  _ Severus is still alive _ , he thought fiercely. He could still do something to make this right.

“Only a few drops left, hardly seems worth using,” Briggs said. He knelt over Harry and grinned. “I’ll have Burkin fetch that bottle of whiskey from your desk if this doesn’t do the trick. Drowning in alcohol was always a more fitting end for you, don’t you think?”

Harry struggled against him as the man forced his jaw open. He bit down on the fingers, but Briggs only grunted and forced his teeth apart again. Harry wasn’t strong enough to stop it, not like this, maybe not even in his prime if such a thing had existed. He flailed, hit out, bit and kicked with his good leg, but none of it mattered. As soon as that bitter taste was in his mouth, his treacherous throat gulped it down.

It wasn’t enough, not enough to make him feel- Merlin… He moaned as the pain eased a little, but his heart raced madly. He didn’t notice he’d closed his eyes until something tapped him on the cheek, making him open them again. His chest hurt, an acute ache on the left side. Merlin. He wished he could cry.

Briggs crouched over him. “I respect you, Harry. I do,” he said. The vial was in his hands, turning, toying. “When they ask me to say a few words at your funeral, I think I’ll tell them how much I admired your dedication to getting totally shitfaced. You must have really been hitting those pain relievers hard, to have built up this level of tolerance in so short a time.”

“They won’t believe it,” Harry whispered. He was floating again, floating like a leaf on a river. He was going to the great big sea, the end of all things.

Briggs ran his fingers gently over Harry’s cheek. It felt so nice, so wrong. It made him tremble. “They already do,” Briggs said sadly. “I went to dinner with Ron and Hermione just last night. They blame themselves, you know. If only they hadn’t ignored the signs years ago, thinking you’d pull through in the end. If only, if only. They let you slip out of control, but hush now, don’t blame them. They couldn’t have known you’d turn to this.” He placed the empty brown vial on Harry’s chest. It felt like nothing, and like the weight of the entire world.

Harry sighed into the man’s hand. Hermione… She was so pretty, so smart. Had her head on straight, she did. She was one of his best friends. “It’s not… not their fault…” he managed. Why was he struggling so hard? It felt good to let go. To just… exist. It felt so good, to finally be free.

“It’s alright now, Harry. I’ll look after them, a guiding hand on their shoulders. It’ll be difficult for them, but I’ll be there to make sure they follow the right path.” Oh good, that was… good. Wasn’t it? The hand disappeared from his cheek, and Harry huffed a sad breath. Something touched his hand instead, cold and heavy. “Hold this for me, would you?”

Harry raised his hand, wobbly, to see what he’d been given. The knife. The knife! He had to- It fell out of his weak fingers, and he scrambled to pick it up again, brandishing it at Briggs, who was still smiling.

The auror stood up, and the knife was levitated out of Harry’s hands. “Thank you, that was the last thing I needed from you. Feel free to die at your earliest convenience while I have another chat with your boyfriend here.” He turned away. The knife hovered over his left shoulder, a million miles away from Harry’s outstretched fingers. “Severus? Can you still hear me? Harry’s having a great time, don’t you have anything to say?”

“Piss… off,” Severus ground in reply.

His voice… He really was still alive. Harry’s eyes stung afresh, and he tried to roll over onto his side, towards the chair. If he could just… just be there, with him. In the end.

Something tapped him right on the end of his nose. He frowned, falling onto his back. It happened again, then a third time. An insistent patter on his skin. He put up a hand to swat it away, but there was nothing there. It poked him on the nose again.

It… it meant something. It was important. The tapping stopped.

He had to get Briggs talking again. Urgency rose in him like… like a tangerine bobbing to the surface of a dark pond. Did tangerines float?  _ Concentrate _ . “You’re going to frame me for his murder,” Harry said.

“Just as soon as you’re dead, and I can take you both back to the cells without you making a racket and spoiling things for me,” Briggs confirmed lightly. The knife spun in a lazy circle near his head. If only it would fly off and stab him in the eye...

Harry chuckled at the thought of that. Blood spurting everywhere, all over the ceiling as the man screamed. “I can’t murder someone if I’m already dead,” Harry replied, confused. He half closed his eyes, and then jerked them open. No! He knew what would happen if he closed his eyes.

“Harry,” Severus said, but didn’t follow it up with anything. Just Harry. He felt the weight of that word. Not Potter.  _ Harry _ . He barely listened to Briggs, couldn’t focus on anything but Sev.

Harry pulled himself towards the chair.

“I’ll be doing that part,” Briggs was saying. “Can’t let someone else take care of my old friend here. Isn’t that right, Severus? Some things take a personal touch, and I think we all know that stabbing is a very personal way to die.” Harry couldn’t see what Briggs was doing, but he was touching Severus. Touching  _ Harry’s  _ Severus _. _ “The heart, I think.”

“So you… you stole all those green things, just to get him in a cell with me?” Harry asked. It was so convoluted, but he could visualise it now. The whole thing, like a web spreading out around him. He reached the chair. “You planted Dowell... so I got the right… suspect.”

“You ask too many questions for a dying man,” Briggs said, and kicked him in the side. He barely felt it. “Burkin!” he shouted. “Damn, what’s that man playing at.”

Harry slid a hand along the floor, didn’t have the energy left to raise it. He touched Sev’s shoe. It felt like the only real thing left, this patch of scuffed leather. He blinked. “But Dowell’s… he’s gay, you know that…?”

“Don’t provoke him,” Severus croaked. He didn’t know. He didn’t know that Harry was already-

Briggs kicked him in the arm violently, pushing his hand away from Severus. His hand tingled. “He’s deluded!” The man shouted, finally showing some real emotion, and raised his foot for a second kick. Harry didn’t care. He’d done enough now. The water’s surface was coming, the last ocean. “I’m doing this for him. Poor Chrissie was beside herself when she found out. I promised I’d get him the help he needs.”

Harry’s heart was beating so fast, his lungs too, but he didn’t feel like he was getting any air. He reached for Severus again, this time moving his hand up to the ankle. He touched skin and sighed. He could do this. With Severus here, he could see it all through to the end.

“He needs a  _ boyfriend _ ,” he told Briggs. “A nice man to…” to kiss him after a long day, and make him cups of tea, and get pissed with three nights a week, and lie next to him in the darkness: feeling after so many years lost at sea, that he’d finally found a harbour. Someone to love him.

“He needs a cure,” Briggs spat back, and pressed his foot onto Harry’s chest. Harry wheezed, did nothing to stop it. “And I’m going to bring it back. Reinstate the CCB and give good people like Al a chance to be normal again.”

“The wiz… wizen… They won’t vote…” The world pulsed grey. Harry barely took it in when Briggs pulled him up by his collar, fist raised threateningly. Wasn’t that funny? Threatening to punch a man who was already dead.

“They’ll vote how I like,” Briggs hissed, bringing their heads so close together that Harry could see the red veins in his eyes. They stood out, the only colour left in the entire world. “The Prophet already has the story, they’re just waiting for the sordid photographs. Tomorrow the wizengamot will vote against Granger’s bill because of your disgusting acts. Drugged up head auror Harry Potter takes revenge on gay death eater, after sadly being lured into indecency working the case.  _ If only _ there was some kind of institution, some department that could have helped him before he reached that point.

“This has been years in the planning. You can’t stop it - you couldn’t even stop  _ yourself _ . You were never supposed to start up a real love affair with Snape - it just makes it easier for me to kill you. I’m a good man, I don’t hurt good people. You don’t need to understand. I’m saving lives here. Me! I had Summs add pol resin to your potions, and when she refused to up the dose, I had Burkin do it. I let you lead me to Severus’ little hidey hole with a trail of burglaries, and then all I had to do was wait for you to find the evidence, with Dowell drip-feeding evidence to your  _ incompetent _ team. You’re dying, and Severus will be next, and no one will ever know what really happened here because they’re all as bloody stupid as you are.”

Harry looked blearily past the auror’s head, unable to concentrate on the words any more. Tangerine. The tangerine had come to the surface now, and Harry smiled.

“Is that your full confession, Addison?”

Harry thumped to the ground, knocking the last bit of air out of him.

Ron. Thank god. Thank god he’d got here in time to save Severus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SalazarInADress slumped over the keyboard, their broken heart dripping dark globulets of despair into their stomach. They looked up with hopeless eyes. "Re-readers... I always m-meant to... tell you... that I-" _dies_  
> FYI if there was major character death I would have tagged it. Uh I'm gunna go see if there's a tag for near death, actually. Oops. Not to spoil it for you, but I don't want a horde of angry comments about not tagging something like that, I don't have enough emotions left in my soul to cope. xD


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is your fluff, your happy ending. Take it! Take it!

_“...can’t believe you…”_

_“...ver walk again, if he survives. We’re doing ever-...”_

_“...absolute total bloody wanker…”_

_“...should have known, if I’d just…”_

_“...don’t understand why you couldn’t have…”_

_“...don’t come back, I’ll never forgive...“_

Voices trickled down to him like bubbles of water sinking through an ocean of air. He let them slide past - didn’t want to hear them, so angry and sad and frustrated. Harry didn’t feel those things. Not here.

He breathed deeply, fresh air with that sweet edge to it. Air from high up in the clouds. His favourite smell. It reminded him of someone, but he let that go as well.

He was sinking, he knew. Slowly. It was alright. This wasn’t like King’s Cross, but he recognised the sense of existing here. Everything - which was nothing - was sharp, yet still rounded and soft at the edges. It soothed him as he sunk away from the brightness and the sad, horrible voices.

At times, he felt something wrap around his hand. Like someone touching it, warm and solid and real. The only real thing here, apart from the bubbles of sound. Here it was again now. It comforted him, and he felt himself slide further into the shadows.

“It’s time to come home, Harry,” a voice said, like gravel and smoke. It wasn’t angry or sad - just certain.

Harry smiled. Home sounded nice.

***

“-wouldn’t believe me at all, but then I found Dowell crying in the corner of our desk hall like a fucking baby. I suggested if he didn’t tell what he knew, he could try living as a werewolf as _well_ as a homosexual. Can’t believe I ever worked with that wheedling little coward.”

Harry hummed, because he felt something was expected of him. Zantia was only here to keep him company - they had a rota, the bastards, to make sure he was alright, and that he didn’t try to escape. He tried not to snap, but Jesus Christ he felt shit. Shitter than ever. At least no one was saying it to his face these days. He opened his eyes and turned his head on the white pillow, watching Zantia wave her hands animatedly as she explained for the third time how she’d single-handedly saved the day.

His gratitude was starting to wear a bit thin.

“The issue was, we still had no idea where they’d taken you. Draco was lying there unconscious, holding your leg like it was the last bottle of champagne left on the planet, and the aurors were playing dumb. I had the idea to floo Minerva in - she’s very impressed, you know - and we managed to extrapolate from the sine of the third warp curve-“

“Did… did you…” Harry sighed drowsily. It took too much energy to talk.

She rushed forward and gripped his arm. “What? What was that you said?”

Merlin, she was keen. Bright and energetic. He tried to feel annoyed about it. “Teach,” he mumbled.

“Oh!” Zantia exclaimed, grinning. “Yes. I got the job. The minister wrote me the most _amazing_ reference.”

“Oh, good…” Harry closed his eyes again.

Zantia tightened her grip on his arm. “Don’t be like that. C’mon, your reference was great too. I loved it, you know I did. I’ll be quoting it at you for years to come with my _incredible memory for detail_.”

Harry moaned but couldn’t turn away with his abysmal strength.

“Hey look, Draco’s here for his shift. Shocker, that - absolutely insisted on being part of the gang. I suppose he kept that leg of yours safe. Guarded it with his own body, and all that.” She leaned over and kissed Harry on the forehead, something he would never have allowed if he had a choice. All these people suddenly wanting to hug him all the time, it was awful. “Fat lot it did in the end though, right?” She whispered, so that Draco wouldn’t overhear.

Harry didn’t need reminding. He wasn’t certain he’d have wanted them to reattach the leg again, after all the trouble it had given him the first time. First chance he got, he was apparrating out of here, and there was nothing to stop him anymore. Except they had his fucking wand. What did they think he’d do, run off to find some dealer? He wouldn’t even know where to look.

He supposed he’d have to start at Knockturn Alley.

They continued with the rota for three entire weeks, until Harry couldn’t bear to see a single one of their faces again. Ron had gone from quiet, to joking, to awkward. He didn’t want to see Harry being sick and shaky like the _substance abuser_ he was, but he did want to be there for his friend. At least he got Harry caught up on the last two years of quidditch news - “It was bloody nonsense, anyone could see the Puddles paid off ref but they upheld the score. You ask me mate, I reckon those rumours are true about Sylvier Monty’s bulrush underpants.” Ron had raised his eyebrows speculatively here, and Harry hummed noncommittally in response. He had no idea who Monty was, but it sounded significant.

Hermione on the other hand was patient, understanding - and constantly apologetic. Harry couldn’t believe the number of things she couldn’t believe - that she’d been so blind, that she’d trusted Briggs over her own friend, that she hadn’t seen the signs, that she’d allowed herself to be fooled, that she’d let him down for all those years to concentrate on her career… It never seemed to end. Eventually, Harry snapped and told her that if she apologised one more fucking time, he’d- he’d roll out of bed and.. uh, drown himself in the fish tank in the lobby, or something. Ridiculous. They’d stared at one another, Harry with an angry scowl and Hermione with an expression of surprise. And then, like a bubble popping, they’d laughed. Suddenly they weren’t the Minister of Magic who had once gone to school with the Boy Who Lived To Be Shit. They were Harry and Hermione. Friends. It was a weight neither of them realised had been weighing them down so heavily, lifted.

Tina was okay at first, but once she started talking about her kids, that was another non-stop roller coaster ride he couldn’t wait to get off. Harry dreaded the days when she was on rota, come for the free therapy session of telling a near-corpse about her marital problems and how the broken enchantment on her kitchen window was winding her right up.

For Mosser’s part, he’d got it into his head that reading books was a thing people did to the bed-ridden, which would have been great except the man only enjoyed tacky muggle detective novels with dubious romantic subplots and unnecessarily convoluted plotlines. Totally unrealistic.

Surprisingly, Draco was the most tolerable of the lot. He sat by the window, looking out over the street below, and commented on the muggles and wizards walking by. What their jobs might be, whether or not they’d been to prison, their economic status - all according to his personal scale of intelligence based entirely on their fashion sense. Occasionally he’d turn with an amused, unguarded grin plastered on his face to tell Harry about funny moments like hats blowing away and hitting someone else in the face, or a man almost stepping out in front of a car while looking at his mobile phone - “Imagine that. Getting run over in front of a hospital, and he’d still have to wait for an ambulance.” Harry suspected that some or most of the stories were fabrications, but he enjoyed lying back and imagining the stupidity of others instead of his own, for a change.

Severus was the worst. For the first two weeks he’d stalked in, sat down and _glowered_ silently for the full six hours. Every time. He was the only person who had a shift every single day, which would have given Harry hope except that they never spoke.

Harry had finally lost his patience yesterday, asking why Sev bothered coming at all if he was only going to sit there like a sour old sod the entire time. That hadn’t gone down well at all, and just like everything else, it was apparently Harry’s fault. Bloody all of it, as usual.

And yes, if he’d stopped and explained what he’d found instead of taking Severus straight to the Ministry, things might have turned out differently. If he’d shown some faith in the man. But honestly, Harry had only been doing his job, and he was high and exhausted and just trying to do the right thing. Right now, he didn’t have the energy nor the will to play an endless game of _what if_ . Those things never happened, and they have to deal with that, work out what they’re going to do with _this_ reality, right here.

Mosser stopped reading, and Harry remembered where he was. He must have dozed off - the last bit he remembered was the detective getting duped for a third time by some character called the Stoat, or the Otter or something. Empty building, dramatic sounds in the darkness, the whole hog.

“I’ll take it from here,” another voice said, making Harry sit up with a struggle. Severus. He wasn’t sure the man would come back.

“But-“ Mosser began, flicking up his robe sleeve to glance at his watch.

“I’ve cleared it with Granger. Go on.” Like hell he had.

Severus stood at the bottom of Harry’s bed, one hand resting on the rail, the other twitching at his side. He faced straight ahead, but Harry could tell that the man’s attention was all on him.

Mosser gave Harry a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before hurrying out. He left the book on the side table, as usual. Thinking that Harry might like to carry on reading where they left off. Sometimes he moved the bookmark forwards a chapter or two, just to humour the guy.

“Potter,” Severus said, after the door had clicked shut.

Harry let out a breath. “Don’t, Sev. Just…” He laid back on his pillows. He’d been taken out for a stroll in the wheelchair this morning, so he was too exhausted for an argument. “Let’s not, okay? Come here.”

Severus walked around the edge of the bed, seemingly reluctant - but Harry could see right through it, so he reached up and took his hand, tugged at it until the man finally sat on the edge of the mattress.

“I want to go home,” he said, squeezing.

“Grimmauld Place isn’t ready for you. Granger-Weasley has her clan of mercenaries working shifts to have it rearranged.” The mercenaries were her paid house elves, a whole army of them in tiny blue uniforms and hats. Another thing Harry avoided thinking about or being part of. They were making his house suitable for habitation by someone with… with his leg. The way it was. “Perhaps next week-“

“Sev.” Harry said, and tugged the hand again until Severus leaned far enough over that Harry could pull it to his cheek. He smiled into Sev’s palm, hoping the man could feel it. “I want to go _home_.”

“I need time,” Severus replied. His posture was stiff, and his face was a mask, staring unseeing at the white wall over Harry’s head. It was a lie. Well fine, if he wanted Harry to play this game, then he would.

Harry caressed his fingers over the back of Severus’ hand, nudging his face against it. “Time to talk yourself out of it, you mean. Of me. I won’t let you.” He moved his grip up to the man’s elbow. “Come here.”

Severus allowed himself to be moved again, until finally his head was close enough for Harry to grab it in both hands. He ran a thumb over one of those ginormous eye bags with a grin. “You look like shit,” he said, and then he dragged the face down and kissed it. His arms ached and his back shook from the effort of leaning up, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t gone through all that effort only to lose Severus in the end anyway.

Harry pulled back every so slightly, their lips barely touching as they shared breaths. _Come on_ , Harry thought, nudging Severus’ nose with his own. _Come on, Sev._ Then Severus returned the kiss, just a quick, uncertain meeting, and Harry sagged in relief. Finally. Finally, it was going to be okay. _They_ were going to be okay.

“I knew this would happen,” Sev muttered, touching foreheads with Harry and making him smile again. 

Harry nodded. He couldn’t stop smiling. God, people were going to think all sorts about him if he didn’t stop. But Severus was smiling too, just a little bit. If you looked _really_ closely. “I feel like I should make some comment about you stealing my heart.”

Severus grimaced. “Don’t you dare. Isn’t it enough that I stole a wheelchair on the way here? Premeditated removal of hospital property, without the intention of returning it. You’ve made a thief of me, Harry.”

“They’ll come after you,” Harry said, grinning even wider and stroking Severus’ face. His eyes sparkled with their silly, romantic stars. “They’ll never stop chasing down the dastardly chair burglar.”

“Then it seems I have no time to lose.” Sev wound his hand round Harry’s back, helping to support his weight and bring them closer together.

Harry hummed. “Theft _and_ a kidnapping.”

Severus kissed him again, this time pushing him carefully down onto the pillows and trapping him with the weight of his chest. He brushed back Harry’s unruly fringe, even as his own hair fell like a curtain around them. Harry ran his hands through it, down to the back of his neck and up again, wishing they could stay like this - but he suspected that Sev hadn’t actually cleared anything by Hermione, so they really did need to go. He pushed his lover away gently.

Severus, for once not frowning at all, reached into his robe and produced Harry’s wand. Yup, definitely not cleared with ‘Mione. “You’ll have to apparate us. I’ll grab the chair.” His seriousness was somewhat diminished by the shiny red of his lips and Harry’s euphoric sense of victory at having caused it.

As Sev stepped back, wiping his mouth on his way to the door, Harry watched breathlessly. He was having a feeling again. One of the good ones. It ballooned in his chest, pushing up, out. He imagined that if he were to open his mouth now, all the joy would explode out of him like a reverse-boggart. He couldn’t keep it in. “I’m going to do it,” he called. Severus reappeared in the doorway, struggling to pull a wheelchair through it. All he had to do was turn it a fraction to the left, and the wheel would come unstuck. It really wasn’t the sort of sight that should make a man’s heart swell, but it did.

“I know you are,” Sev replied, kicking the thing free.

“No, I mean I’m going to say it.”

Sev’s face darkened. “Absolutely not,” he said, turning his head to face Harry - or rather, the wall to Harry’s right.

“It’s too late. I feel it coming,” Harry grinned, struggling to a seated position again and shoving the blankets off his legs- his _leg._ He didn’t let his gaze linger on it, looking back up to see Sev shoving the wheelchair past a small side-table. A vase of flowers swung perilously from side to side. God, what a pair they made. This was going to be impossible.

Harry couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Severus Snape, I suspected that you were a thief-“

“No,” Sev informed him, even as he helped Harry clamber out of the bed and into the wheelchair. Harry gripped Severus’ arm to stop him from escaping.

“-which turned out to be true, by the way,” he said, grinning. He felt giddy like a child, like himself all those years ago when he got his first Weasley jumper, his first Christmas gift. Severus tried half-heartedly to escape before Harry could finish the sentence, but Harry captured his hands and he quieted. Accepting his fate. “-but I could never have predicted that you would steal my wheezing, battered old heart.”

Severus groaned, and Harry was still laughing as they popped into darkness.

### Epilogue 2, the Epilogue of the Epilogue, because everyone needs two Epilogues. A tale of two Epilogues, if you will. Epilogue Harder, the Epiloguing.

The doorbell rang. It was a sound - like pretty much every other sound in this old brick-terraced house - that elicited a strong and instant spike of fear in Alisdair Dowell. His fingers twitched, making him almost drop his book, and he glanced fearfully at his sister.

Chrissy looked up from her embroidery, eyes sharp, and the little dent between her brows darkened. With a sick feeling in his stomach, Al put down the book he’d been staring numbly at for the last three hours, and stood up hurriedly. “I’ll get it,” he said, as if there were any other options. He had to remind himself that she loved him, that she was angry _for_ him, not _at_ him. For the opportunity he’d lost, to become like everyone else. To be healed, to be worth something.

He escaped to the hallway and felt for a fleeting moment like he could breathe again. Who was he kidding? She blamed him for the way things were, a state which he flip-flopped between believing to be totally unfair or entirely justified. Her husband was in Azkaban, and it never would have happened if Al hadn’t been caught crying, and spilled all the beans to Zantia.

She’d threatened him, but the truth was he’d have told her either way, never wanted any part of it. Not a single bit.

He’d lost his friends, if they’d really been friends. They hated him now, or maybe they’d hated him all along. Perhaps they’d sensed what was wrong with him from the start - but then, why had they rallied so strongly around Harry Potter; Severus Snape; Draco Malfoy? So it wasn’t that. It was something else, something deeper, like his mother had always said: Al was _queer_ . Not only in the sense that he was… was… like _that_ , but also in his heart. There was something in there, twisted and wrong. He was wrong, all wrong. Mother had been right, and now his sister was right too; even his terrifying mountain of a brother in law had seen it.

He leaned against the wall, clutching his stomach. It always hurt when he got like this, stuck in his own head. A sharp stab that got him pretty much every day since his darling sister had moved home. He could barely remember what the intermission had been like, the years of her marriage in which he had lived blissfully alone. Surely it hadn’t been like this.

Wasn’t it enough that he had to suffer the experience of living as himself? Couldn’t that ever just be enough, for everyone else to leave him alone? 

He reached the door, quickly glanced through the eye hole, and his heart thumped to a stop. Why- He pressed his face to the door and watched a pale, delicate hand reach up. The doorbell rang again.

“Al!” Chrissy shouted from the drawing room.

“I’ve g-got it,” he called back lightly. Merlin! His hand trembled on the door handle.

He was trapped between a hungarian horntail and a norwegian ridgeback. Again. He never seemed to have the right options, always having to choose between different types of shit. How was he ever supposed to do the right thing, when it was never presented to him?

The hand was raised again, and Al scrambled to open the door before it could reach the button.

“Hi!” He said, somehow breathless even though he’d been standing still for the last thirty seconds. “Good… good afternoon, ah. M-mister Malfoy. Why, um?” He threw a look over his shoulder to check that Chrissy hadn’t come to see who was calling.

“Draco,” the man said, holding out a hand.

Al avoided it with a shaky smile, reaching backwards to grab the door handle. He stepped out, pulling the door half closed behind, and Malfoy’s hand pressed into his chest. He decided to shake it, if only to make it go away. “You, ah. You shouldn’t be here. I… After the things I…” He couldn’t finish that sentence, and gulped instead, looking up and down the street. Dear Lord, this was awful. Really awful. Chrissy’s face appeared in the bay window, purple with anger. “Oh. Oh, Lord…”

On an impulse, he pulled the door shut, gripping the handle behind him with both hands. He heard her shout inside, voice high pitched and angry like the pure-blooded matriarchs of old. Never mind that they were mudbloods - that inconvenient little truth only drove her deeper into her grand delusion.

Draco clapped Al on the shoulder, reminding him that he was dealing with _two_ dragons here. “Well, you did the right thing in the end,” he said, smiling.

The door rattled. “Only… only be-because they made me,” Al replied. Why was he holding the door shut? Lord, Chrissy was going to be so mad. He stepped to the side, bracing his hip against the solid frame. Oh Lord, oh dear Lord. She was going to kill him later. What was he doing?

Draco’s smile widened. Like a shark who had found its meal. Al held back a whimper.

Merlin, he was stuck here, right between the two of them. Why was Malfoy even _here_ ? He should… should just let Chrissy out, make a run for it while the two distracted one another. He’d always dreamed of running away. Of course, those little fantasies often ended with sordid, evil acts in the back of the Night Bus, men with rough hands. _Oh Lord, forgive me..._

“Cowardice is a great reason to do the right thing. Trust me, great foundation to build on for later,” Draco said conversationally. Could he really not see this was a bad time? He didn’t so much as glance over Al’s shoulder, just kept looking him right in the eye with a soft, knowing smile.

“W-why are you h-here?” Al asked, against the violent banging of the door. Chrissy was yelling just on the other side. Demanding. Al felt sick.

“I wanted you to meet some people,” Draco replied. “People like us.”

“I’m not-“

“Good people,” Draco continued. The handle stopped rattling and started to grow hot in Al’s hands. “Happy. At peace with themselves, just living their lives. People who know there’s nothing wrong with them.”

The blond held out his hand again.

Al shook his head. “I can’t,” he gasped. The door handle was _really_ hot now. His skin prickled and his wrists began to sweat. “You n-need to go.”

“Come with me.”

“I can’t,” Al repeated. “I’m n-not like you.”

Draco only smiled wider. “No one’s quite like me, Dowell. I can’t help that.” He turned his hand palm-up, eyes imploring. “You can keep the chastity belt, bible boy. Just take my hand.”

The door handle tore out of Al’s sweaty grip, sending him flying into the hedgerow. The vines crept around him, tangling themselves around his arms as he struggled to escape. Bloody magical plants!

“Al! What’re you _doing_?” Chrissy all but shrieked, and Al decided to let the bush take him on second thought. “You ungrateful-“

“Good to see you again, I do hope you’re well?” Draco said smoothly with a half bow, as Al managed to turn himself around if not disentangle himself from the hedge. His hands were burnt from the heating charm, and every vine or leaf he touched hurt.

Like his whole life played out on the skin of his palms, urgh.

As soon as he found his feet, Chrissy froze him with a chilly look. “You stay right there, little brother. Even after everything they did to us, you clearly lack the backbone to see them off.”

“Come now, there’s no need for that,” Draco said, his smile finally sliding away.

“Don’t you threaten me!” Chrissy stepped up nose-to-nose with Malfoy, her face a livid red, the veins on her forehead popping like they did in the cartoons mum had let them watch when they were kids.

This was it, his chance to run. But where? This wasn’t one of his fantasies, meeting some square-jawed stranger who didn’t know who he was, who took him in and then- _o my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell._ He couldn’t think those thoughts - and he couldn’t leave. In the real world, he had to eat, to sleep. He’d have to come home again later, there was nowhere else. Chrissy was all he had left.

He couldn’t run now, he realised. He should have done it while he was an auror on Potter’s team. He should have said more. Harry would have listened. He would have helped Al find a way out. He’d just been so scared - of Addison, of his sister, of himself. What he would turn into, without his family there to stop him. Now it was too late.

Chrissy was pushing Draco back, down the path. Away. Al’s heart thundered in his throat, so loud he couldn’t even hear his sister’s screeching. No. It… It wasn’t too late. This was it. Draco Malfoy was here, right now, but he was leaving. And then it would just be Al and Chrissy, forever.

Still lying in the bush, tangled in a mass of vines with twigs poking out of his hair, Al raised his hand. There was still a part of him that hoped Draco wouldn’t see, that this small act would remain between him and God.

Draco turned. His eyes flickered from Al’s face to his reddening palm, and his face split into a wide grin. He stepped calmly around Chrissy, even as she brandished her wand, and knelt in front of Al.

“Trust me,” he said, with that easy, pretty smile. He took Al’s hand in both of his, cool skin soothing on Al’s reddened palm. “You’re going to love it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to write the second epilogue, but then I was lying awake at 4am a few weeks ago and I just... idk, I realised that Al was this person in my head, a full person who was acting through fear and a desire for salvation, and that I avoided talking about it at all in the fic because I didn't want to concentrate on OCs. I felt that I had cheated him out of the compassion he deserves xD


End file.
